TT^^in  r* 

LITTLE  DINNERS 

WITH  THE 

SPHINX 


RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


LITTLE  DINNERS 
WITH  THE  SPHINX 

AND 

OTHER  PROSE  FANCIES 


LITTLE  DINNERS 
WITH  THE  SPHINX 


AND 


OTHER  PROSE  FANCIES 


By 
RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 


New  York 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY 
1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 

MOFFAT,  YARD  &  COMPANY, 

NEW  YORK. 

PUBLISHED  SEPTEMBER,  1907. 


TO    EVA 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Little  Dinners  with  the  Sphinx   . 

1.  On  the  Edge  of  the  Starlight    ...  3 

2.  The  Mysticism  of  Gastronomy             .  .           9 

3.  On  the  Wearing  of  Opals         .            .  .19 

4.  New  Loves  for  Old       .           .            .  .29 

II.    The  Death  of  the  Poet        ...       41 

III.  The  Butterfly  of  Dreams     .          .  -79 

IV.  My  Castle  in  Spain     .          .          .  .105 
V.     Once-upon-a-time        ,          .          .  .121 

VI.    The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret          .  .151 

VII.    What's  in  a  Name    .          .          .  .175 

VIII.    Revisiting  the  Glimpses  of  the  Moon  .      195 

IX.  Eva,  the  Woodland  and  I  .  .231 

X.  The  Dream  Documents  .  .  .253 


LITTLE  DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE 
STARLIGHT 

THE  Sphinx  and  I  had  not  met  for  quite 
a  long  time.  We  hadn't  dined  to- 
gether for  —  O  I  should  think  —  four  years ; 
and  it  was  strange  to  both  of  us  to  be  sitting 
opposite  to  each  other  once  more  in  the  friend- 
ly glitter  of  a  little  dinner  table  —  that  glitter 
which  is  made  up  of  skillfully  mitigated  elec- 
tric light  falling  on  various  delicate  objects 
of  pleasure:  the  slim,  fluted  crystal  of  the 
wineglasses,  the  lustral  linen,  the  tinkling  ice 
in  its  silver  jug,  the  moon-white  roses,  and 
the  opals  on  the  Sphinx's  long  fingers. 

We  were  both  a  trifle  conscious,  and  we 
looked  at  each  other  half  inquiringly  across 
the  table. 

"  Are  we  the  same  people? "  presently  asked 
the  Sphinx. 


4       DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Of  course,  you  are,  my  dear  Sphinx;  but 
I  hope,  for  your  sake,  that  I  am  not. " 

"  For  my  sake?" 

"  I  mean  that  it  is  a  poor  compliment  to  a 
woman  one  adores  always  to  bring  the  same 
man  to  dinner." 

"I  see  —  you  have  n't  changed  a  bit. 
.  .  .  .  Yes,  you  have, "  she  added,  after 
a  pause.  "  Why,  you  're  growing  grey.  How 
have  you  managed  that  at  your  age? " 

"  'Sorrows  like  mine  would  blanch  an  an- 
gel's hair, ' "  I  answered,  with  pathos,  quoting 
from  a  noble  sonnet  of  our  own  time. 

"Sorrows!  If  you  said  pleasures,  you 
would  be  nearer  the  mark.  It  is  pleasure, 
not  sorrow,  that  makes  the  butterfly's  wings 
turn  grey." 

"  One's  sorrows  are  one's  pleasures  —  are 
they  not?"  I  retorted. 

"Yes!"  said  the  Sphinx,  wistfully,  "you 
are  right.  'Of  our  tears  she  hath  made  us 
pearls,  and  of  our  sobbing  she  hath  made 
unto  us  a  song' — who  said  that?  Was  it 
you?" 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STARLIGHT  5 

"Very  likely,  "said  I. 

' '  Yes !  you  are  right, ' '  she  continued.  ' '  Our 
pleasures  we  could  spare  —  but  not  our  sor- 
rows —  our  beautiful  sorrows. " 

"Sorrows,"  I  ventured,  "are  the  opals  of 
the  soul." 

Then  the  Sphinx  stretched  her  opalled  hand 
across  the  table  and  patted  mine  and  said, 
"  You  dear, "  just  as  in  the  old  days. 

The  tears  came  to  my  eyes. 

"Mark  your  influence!"  I  said.  "That  is 
the  first  good  thing  I  have  said  for  four  years. " 

"What  appalling  faithfulness!"  laughed 
the  Sphinx.  "But  I  would  rather  a  man 
were  faithful  to  me  with  his  brain  than  with 
his  heart.  It  means  more.  Faithful  hearts 
are  comparatively  common — but  when  a  man 
is  faithful  with  his  brain " 

"  His  hair  turns  grey,  "  I  got  in. 

"  Yes!  Now  tell  me  about  your  grey  hair. 
I  am  sure  you  have  some  beautiful  explana- 
tion to  offer,  some  picturesque  excuse,  some 
vindicatory  fancy. " 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  say  that  I  grew  it  grey 


6       DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

to  please  a  girl  who  thought  she  would  like 
it  so?" 

"  I  should  believe  you  —  for  I  never  knew 
a  man  who  would  do  so  much  for  a  woman 
as  you!"  answered  the  Sphinx,  laughing. 
"  And  did  —  or  rather  does  —  she  like  it? " 

"  No, "  I  answered  sadly,  "  she  thought  she 
would,  but  she  does  n't.  She  wants  it  brown 
again,  but  it  is  too  late. " 

"  It  will  always  be  brown  for  me, "  said  the 
Sphinx. 

Sentiment  threatened  us  a  moment,  but 
the  April  cloud  passed  without  falling. 

"Tell  me  another  reason,"  asked  the 
Sphinx,  "you  have  plenty  more  I  am  sure." 

"  To  tell  the  truth  there  are  several  explana- 
tions, ' '  I  continued  gravely.  "  I  hardly  know 
which  to  choose.  The  scientific  one  is  prob- 
ably this:  Nature  is  beginning  to  retrench. 
She  cannot  afford  any  longer  to  keep  up  so 
expensive  a  house  of  life.  Her  bank  account 
of  vitality  is  no  longer  what  it  was.  Time 
was  when  she  poured  her  blood  through  one's 
veins  like  a  spendthrift,  and  kept  up  ever 


ON  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  STARLIGHT  7 

so  fine  and  flashing  a  style.  One's  members 
lived  like  princes  in  their  pride,  and  there 
was  colour  and  dash  for  all  and  to  spare.  But 
now  nature  feels  that  she  can  no  longer  afford 
this  prodigality  —  she  feels,  as  I  said,  the 
need  of  retrenchment.  So,  looking  about 
the  house  of  life,  she  says  to  herself:  'Here 
I  can  spare  a  little,'  and  'We  can  dispense 
with  this/  and '  We  can  no  longer  afford  that.' 
Then,  coming  to  the  hair,  she  says  sorrow- 
fully: '  This  brown  colour  is  very  expensive,  I 
can  no  longer  afford  it.  We  must  be  content 
with  grey.'  Soon  she  will  find  the  eyes  too 
expensive  to  keep  up  in  their  present  bright- 
ness, and  the  ears  will  have  to  be  content 
with  a  reduced  supply  of  sound " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  stop,"  said  the  Sphinx. 
"  You  give  one  the  creeps.  You  are  as  bad  as 
'  Everyman,'  or  'Holbein's  Dance  of  Death.' " 

"  Well,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  the  real  reason," 
I  rejoined.  "  Two  winters  ago  I  played  snow- 
ball with  a  little  child  I  love.  She  managed 
to  hit  me  here  on  my  temple,  and  it  has  n't 
melted  yet." 


8       DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Just  one  more  reason!" 

"Well,  the  true  reason  is,"  I  said,  really 
solemnly  this  time,  "that  I  am  passing  out 

of  the  sunlight  into  the  starlight 

Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"I  will,"  said  the  Sphinx,  after  a  pause, 
taking  my  hand. 


II 

THE   MYSTICISM   OF 
GASTRONOMY 

EVEN  our  digestion  is  governed  by 
angels! "  said  William  Blake  —  one  of 
those  picturesque  phrases  with  which  he 
was  wont  to  flash  on  us  the  mystery  that 
abides  eternally  just  under  the  surface  of 
the  familiar.  I  have  often  recalled  the  phrase 
as  I  sat  at  dinner  with  the  Sphinx ;  and  not, 
of  course,  in  any  trivial,  punning  spirit,  but 
seriously  in  regard  to  that  sensitive  mood 
of  harmony,  and  of  keen  exhilarating  inti- 
macy, which  seems  to  come  over  us  when  we 
thus  sit  at  dinner  together  as  it  never  comes 
at  any  other  time. 

"Why  is  it,"  I  asked  her  recently,  after 

our  old  friendly  waiter  had  jvelcomed  us  with 

the  smile  that  we  really  believe  he  keeps  just 

for  us,  and  had  seen  us  comfortably  settled 

9 


io     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

in  our  own  quiet  corner,  "why  is  it  that 
I  always  feel  happier  with  you  at  dinner  than 
at  any  other  time?" 

"You  have  the  dinner  as  well,"  answered 
the  Sphinx,  laughing,  "  on  other  occasions  you 
have  only  —  me." 

"Admitting  the  profundity  of  your  ex- 
planation," I  rejoined,  "I  think  there  must 
be  a  still  deeper  one  —  but  what  it  is  I  cannot 
say.  For  instance,  we  are  happy  together 
when  we  take  a  walk  through  the  woods,  or 
sit  through  the  afternoon  in  the  old  garden, 
or  read  a  book  together.  How  happy  we 
have  been  on  the  sea  together,  with  no  one 
but  we  two  under  the  blue  sky.  Yet  I  have 
never  felt  so  near  to  you,  never  so  at  harmony 
with  you,  as  when  we  have  sat  at  this  table 
and  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  over  our 
wineglasses.  Why  is  it?" 

"Just  what  I  say!  Very  evidently,  by 
your  own  showing  —  it  is  dinner  that  makes 
the  difference.  Not  in  the  woods  you  say, 
not  in  the  garden,  not  with  books,  not 
on  the  sea  —  not  anywhere  but  at  dinner. 


THE  MYSTICISM  OF  GASTRONOMY  n 

Ergo,  the  only  possible  explanation  is  — 
dinner." 

"I  am  inclined  to  think  you  are  right," 
said  I,  "  if  only  you  will  give  the  term  dinner 
an  inclusive  significance,  and  not  ascribe  the 
whole  miracle  to  the  cooking.** 

"The  cooking  has  much  to  do  with  it,  I 
am  convinced,"  persisted  the  Sphinx,  looking 
more  radiantly  spiritual  than  I  ever  saw  her 
look  before.  "  It  is  so  good  that  its  part  in 
the  process  passes  to  some  extent  unnoticed — 
though  I  trust  the  excellence  of  these  mush- 
rooms is  not  lost  upon  you.  Were  the  chef 
to  be  changed  for  the  worse,  I  *m  not  so  sure 
you  would  find  that  harmony  you  speak 
of.** 

"Then  I  have  owed  more  to  the  chef  than 
I  have  ever  realised,"  said  I,  raising  my  glass 
to  her,  and  making  that  salute  to  her  eyes 
which,  however  gay  our  mood,  has  always 
a  curiously  grave,  almost  sacramental,  quality. 
"Still,**  I  continued  presently,  "I  am  not 
entirely  convinced.  Your  argument  has  a 
negative  force,  I  admit.  Bad  cooking,  like 


1 2      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

any  other  extraneous  annoyance,  might, 
of  course,  distract  us  a  little,  and  so  super- 
ficially interrupt  our  harmony;  but  it  is  one 
thing  to  admit  that,  and  another  to  say  that 
it  follows  because  bad  cooking  might  destroy 
our  harmony,  good  cooking  therefore  makes 
it.  No,  I  am  convinced  that  the  miracle 
comes  of  a  conflux  of  pleasant  influences, 
good  food  and  wine  being  amongst  them, 
which  never  entirely  meet  together  except 
at  the  dinner-table.  First  of  all,  the  day 
is  over.  Its  work  is  behind  us.  Its  anxiety 
is  locked  up  for  the  day.  We  meet  the 
good  hour  in  an  attitude  of  gayety,  and 
we  meet  it  in  an  atmosphere  of  other  gay 
people  who  have  come  to  meet  it  in  the  same 
spirit.  Then  we  meet  it  refreshed  by  the 
lustration  of  the  evening  toilet,  and  arrayed 
with  regard  to  the  pleasure  of  the  eyes  we 
specially  aim  to  please " 

"Are  they  pleased  to-night?"  interrupted 
the  Sphinx. 

"  Are  they?  "  I  rejoined.  Then  I  continued 
my  grave  discourse:  <rAs  I  said,  we  are  all 


THE  MYSTICISM  OF  GASTRONOMY  13 

free  and  gay  and  beautiful  and  our  faces  set 
on  pleasure.  Then  there  is  the  music,  the 
scarce-noted  scents  and  the  delicate  shapes 
and  colours  of  flowers,  the  prismatic  glitter 
of  glass,  and  the  exhilarating  snowiness  of 
the  table-linen " 

"  Dave's  beaming  smile,"  added  the  Sphinx, 
referring  to  our  waiter. 

"  Yes,  calling  up  immediately  all  the  happy 
dinners  we  have  had  at  his  table.  If  we  were 
to  meet  him  elsewhere  in  years  to  come,  how 
his  face  would  flash  these  evenings  back  to 
us!  I  believe  I  could  count  up  the  times  we 
have  been  here  by  the  wrinkles  of  kindness 
on  his  face." 

"I  wonder  if  he  really  cares  about  us," 
said  the  Sphinx,  wistfully  watching  Dave  as 
he  expertly  dismembered  a  roast  duck  at  a 
side  table.  Presently  the  excellence  of  the 
duck  turned  her  thoughts  back  again  to  our 
argument. 

"  Say  what  you  will,  with  your  conflux  of 
pleasant  influences,"  she  resumed,  "roast 
duck  is  the  real  explanation." 


14     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"  Who  would  take  you  for  such  a  material- 
ist," said  I,  "  to  look  at  you  there,  so  radiantly 
delicate,  so  shiningly  spirituelle? — " 

"Roast  duck,"  laughed  the  Sphinx,  "my 
spirituelle  expression  comes  entirely  of  roast 
duck,  believe  me." 

I  could  almost  believe  her  in  that  moment. 

"Materialist  yourself!"  she  retorted  pres- 
ently. "You  will  force  me  to  turn  meta- 
physician and  expound  to  you  the  mysticism 
of  gastronomy." 

"The  metaphysics  of  duck!"  I  interjected. 

"Precisely." 

"Proceed,  then,"  said  I,  and  was  silent. 

"  Well,"  she  began,  "  I  am  perfectly  serious. 
It  is  you  that  are  the  materialist,  not  I,  for 
the  reason  that  the  familiarity  of  the  process 
of  eating  blinds  you  to  its  essentially  myste- 
rious nature;  that  process  of  transmutation 
of  gastronomic  alchemy,  by  which  food  is 
changed  into  genius  and  beauty,  and  the 
kitchen  seen  to  be  the  power-house  of  the 
soul.  After  all,  my  gastronomic  theory  of  the 
soul  is  merely  one  side  of  the  same  mystery 


THE  MYSTICISM  OF  GASTRONOMY  15 

which  we  see  illustrated  every  day  on  another 
side  by  the  doctor  and  the  chemist.  When 
we  take  a  dose  of  medicine  to  tonic  our 
nerves,  we  don't  laugh  sceptically,  or  even 
give  a  thought  to  the  wonder  of  its  operation. 
Yet  surely  it  is  mystery  itself  that  distillations 
from  plants,  and  tinctures  drawn  from  stones, 
should  hold  for  us  the  keys  of  life  and  death, 
and  exalt  or  depress  our  immortal  spirits. 
Have  you  ever  thought  on  the  marvel  that 
an  almost  infinitesimal  quantity  of  certain 
juices  distilled  from  some  innocent-faced 
meadow-flower,  a  mere  dewdrop  of  harmless- 
looking  liquid,  can  shatter  our  life  out  of  us 
like  a  charge  of  dynamite?  .  .  .  ." 

"A  little  more  duck,  m'm?"  intervened 
Dave. 

"The  dynamics  of  duck,"  I  whispered 
gently.  "Goon." 

"Well,"  continued  the  Sphinx,  laughing 
bravely,  "the  operation  of  food  is  exactly 
the  same  in  its  nature  as  the  operation 
of  medicines  and  poisons.  For  some  un- 
explained reason,  medicines  and  poisons 


1 6     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

influence  us  in  certain  ways.  We  don't 
know  how  or  why,  we  only  know  that  they 
do.  The  influence  of  wine  again  is  a  part  of 
the  same  mysterious  process.  Why  should 
this  Rudesheimer  affect  us  differently  from 
this  water?  Any  one  unfamiliar  with  the 
difference  between  wine  and  water  would 
say  it  was  absurd.  But  it  is  true  for  all  that 
—  and  if  you  admit  the  influence  of  wine,  and 
the  influence  of  various  other  foreign  sub- 
stances, animal,  vegetable  and  mineral,  on  the 
human  organism,  in  the  form  of  medicines, 
stimulants,  poisons  and  such  like,  you  can- 
not logically  deny  the  possible  influence,  say, 
of  duck.  Therefore,  I  contend  once  more 
that  the  harmony  between  us  of  which  you 
spoke  is  a  music  first  composed  in  the  kitchen, 
transferred  to  notation  on  the  menu,  and 
finally  performed  by  us  in  a  skillful  duet  of 
digestion " 

"  Again, "  added  the  Sphinx  hastily,  as  I 
was  preparing  to  make  some  comment; 

"Again,  you  know  that  the  intimate  con- 
nection between  supper  and  dreams  is  a 


THE  MYSTICISM  OF  GASTRONOMY  17 

scientific  fact.  If  supper  produces  night- 
dreams,  why  shouldn't  lunch  and  dinner 
produce  daydreams!" 

"I  surrender  unconditionally  to  that," 
I  laughed,  "you  have  won.  We  owe  it  all 
to  the  chef.  We  are  but  notes  in  his  music 
— '  helpless  pieces  of  the  game  he  plays !  * 

"A  little  more  duck,  sir?"  intervened 
Dave,  once  more. 

"Yes,  Dave,  I  will,"  said  I,  with  emphasis. 


ni 

ON  THE  WEARING    OF    OPALS 

HOW  sad  your  eyes  are  to-night!"  I 
said  to  the  Sphinx  a  few  evenings 
ago. 

"Are  they?"  she  smiled.  "But  then  you 
know  we  are  never  so  sad  as  our  eyes." 

"Are  you  quite  sure  there  is  nothing 
wrong?"  I  asked. 

"Perfectly I  expect  I  have 

been  looking  too  long  at  my  opals." 

After  a  moment  she  added: 

"  I  so  often  think  of  what  you  said  about 
sorrows  being  the  opals  of  the  soul." 

"Fancy  your  remembering  that!"  said  I, 
with  mock  modesty. 

"It  is  strange,"  the  Sphinx  went  on,  "how 
sorrow  continues  to  be  associated  with  the 
opal." 

"  I  have  often  marvelled  at  your  courage 
19 


20     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

in  wearing  so  many.  They  gleam  on  your 
fingers  like  a  whole  armory  of  sorrow." 

"  Is  there  any  danger  a  woman  would  n't 
dare  for  beauty's  sake?  And  in  spite  of  the 
superstition,  they  are  more  fashionable  than 
ever.  Yet  I  don't  think  there  is  a  woman 
who  wears  them  who  does  not  feel  in  her  heart 
that  she  is  living  under  the  rainbow  of  some 
beautiful  doom,  some  romantic  menace.  Some 
day  the  genius  of  the  stone  will  touch  her 
heart,  with  its  wand  of  sorrow,  and  her  face 
will  suddenly  become  like  one  of  her  rings, 
mysteriously  lit  with  pathos." 

"  I  believe,"  said  I,  "that  it  is  on  that  very 
account  that  women  wear  them.  It  is  the 
legend  of  the  stone  that  attracts  them  almost 
more  than  its  beauty.  It  has  for  them  some- 
thing of  the  attraction  of  sorcery,  and  sug- 
gests a  commerce  with  those  occult  influences 
which  in  spite  of  ourselves  we  involuntarily 
think  of  as  ruling  the  romantic  side  of  our 
lives.  There  is  just  a  spice  of  magic  about 
all  precious  stones,  and,  as  in  the  old  fairy 
tales,  a  certain  ring  was  supposed  to  give 


ON  THE  WEARING  OF  OPALS      2 1 

control  over  unseen  powers,  so  even  yet  we 
unconsciously,  or  consciously,  continue  to  at- 
tach superstitious  significance  to  the  wearing 
of  a  ring.'* 

"That  is  true,"  said  the  Sphinx,  "and  any 
woman  who  wears  rings  with  art,  and  not 
merely  for  indiscriminate  display,  sets  a  new 
ring  on  her  finger  with  a  certain  thoughtful- 
ness,  if  not  hesitation.  If  it  does  not  already 
mean  something  to  her,  it  is  going  to  mean 
something  —  and  what  will  that  meaning  be! 
A  ring  that  means  nothing  to  one,  however 
beautiful,  hardly  seems  to  belong  to  us.  A 
ring  is  a  personal  possession  or  nothing 
....  except  diamonds,"  the  Sphinx  ad- 
ded, laughing,  some  particularly  fine  diamonds 
glittering  at  her  throat;  "diamonds  are  like 
one's  carriage  —  a  part  of  one's  entourage." 

"They  are  the  Three-per-Cents  of  Ro- 
mance," said  I. 

"Yes;  one  wears  diamonds  as  one  wears 
shoes.  They  mean  nothing  to  one  individ- 
ually. They  are  social  stones,  even  demo- 
cratic. They  are  impervious  to  association. 


22     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

They  are  like  the  sun  —  every  one  loves 
sunlight,  but  no  one  has  ever  thought  of 
sentimentally  annexing  the  sun.  The  sun 
is  not  romantic.  It  is  a  wholesome,  prosper- 
ous presence  in  our  lives,  but  it  is  impossible 
to  think  of  it  as  personally  related  to  ourselves 
—  whereas  the  moon,  on  the  other  hand, 
means  just  'us'  and  no  one  else  in  the  world 
to  every  romantic  eye  that  looks  up  to  it. 
The  diamond  is  the  sun  of  precious  stones, 
the  opal  is  the  moon." 

"But  what  of  the  pearl?" 
"The  pearl  is  the  Evening  Star." 
"Tell  me,"  I  said,  "if  I  may  ask,  do  your 
opals  stand  for  sorrows  gone  by  or  for  sor- 
rows to  come?" 

"  You  must  n't  be  so  literal,"  she  answered, 
"  one  can  hardly  label  one's  sorrows  like  that. 
Sorrow  is  temperamental,  not  accidental; 
it  is  attitude  rather  than  history;  it  comes 
even  more  from  within  than  from  without. 
Some  natures  attract  it  —  as  the  moon  draws 
the  sea.  When  I  speak  of  my  sorrows  I  do 
not  mean  my  personal  history  —  did  you 


ON  THE  WEARING  OP  OPALS      23 

think  my  opals  stood  for  so  many  disap- 
pointments?" 

She  laughed  disdainfully. 

"No,"  she  continued,  "few  of  us,  alas! 
are  real  enough  to  achieve  the  distinction  of 
a  great  sorrow.  A  great  sorrow  is  as  rare 
as  a  great  work  of  art.  To  know  a  really 
beautiful  sorrow  of  our  own,  one  needs  to 
have  a  tragic  simplicity  of  nature  which 
belongs  only  to  a  few  chosen  temperaments ; 
and  if,  indeed,  a  beautiful  sorrow  should 
come  into  our  lives,  who  knows  but  that  we 
should  miss  its  beauty  in  its  pain!  Just  as 
we  have  musicians  to  make  our  music  for  us, 
we  have  to  rely  on  others  for  our  sorrows." 

"It  is  strange  how  much  more  distin- 
guished sorrow  is  than  joy,"  said  I. 

"Yes;  and  yet  I  suppose  it  is  a  part  of 
what,  resist  it  as  we  may,  seems  to  be  the 
natural  law  of  renunciation.  The  weak 
nature  may  be  crushed  and  lowered  by 
renunciation,  but  the  strong  nature  seems 
to  be  mysteriously  refined.  Perhaps,  indeed, 
it  is  scarcely  correct  to  speak  of  a  weak 


24     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

nature  renouncing.  Things  are  taken  from 
it  rather  than  renounced.  Renunciation 
implies  will,  and  the  exercise  of  strength. 
And  thus  to  be  able  to  do  without  implies  an 
individual  greatness  and  sufficiency  from 
the  beginning.  We  probably  never  renounce 
anything  that  we  really  need.  Whatever  the 
reason,  however,  there  is  no  doubt  that,  as 
you  say,  the  world  is  conscious  of  a  certain 
distinction,  and  even  romantic  beauty  attach- 
ing to  sorrow  which  it  does  not  associate 
with  joy.  Sorrow  seems  to  imply  a  certain 
initiation  into  the  arcana  of  human  experi- 
ence, a  certain  direct  relation  with  the 
regent  powers  of  our  destiny,  august  and 
hidden,  and  only  revealing  their  super- 
natural faces  to  this  and  that  mortal  here 
and  there,  henceforth  stricken,  and,  so  to  say, 
'enchanted',  as  one  touched  by  the  sacred 
lightning  and  yet  alive  among  men." 

"I  suspect,"  said  I,  "that  that  is  what, 
in  a  dim  and  trivial  way,  people  mean  when 
they  speak  of  So-and-So  looking  'interesting* 
—  because  they  look  sad  or  even  only  ill." 


ON  THE  WEARING  OF  OPALS      25 

"No  doubt.  And,  curious  as  it  may 
sound,  I  don't  think  we  are  ever  quite 
satisfied  with  happiness  —  not,  at  all  events, 
till  we  have  known  sorrow.  Till  then,  in  our 
happiest  hours,  we  seem  to  be  unconsciously 
waiting  for  sorrow.  Perhaps  that  is  because 
we  instinctively  feel  that  the  rarest  forms  of 
joy  can  only  be  ours  on  the  conditions  of 
sorrow.  Intense,  complete  joy  is  only  possi- 
ble to  the  sorrowful  temperament  .... 
to  the  nature  sensitive  to  the  sorrow  that 
lives  in  all  beautiful  things " 

"To  the  opal  temperament,"  said  I.  The 
Sphinx  smiled  and  continued: 

"There  again  is  another  mystery.  Why 
does  sadness  seem  to  lie  at  the  heart  of  all 
beauty?  Truth  and  Beauty  seem  indeed  to 
be  one  in  sadness.  All  the  rarest  types  of 
beauty  have  something  sad  about  them,  some 
tragic  look,  or  enigmatic  wistfulness  of 
expression,  at  the  least  a  touch  of  loneliness. 
The  gayest  music  can  never  be  quite  happy. 
Indeed,  one  might  almost  say  that  two 
qualities  only  are  necessary  to  the  highest 


26     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

beauty  —  strangeness  and  sadness :  perhaps 
we  might  say  only  one  and  call  it  world- 
strangeness;  a  look  of  another  world  than 
ours,  a  look  of  spiritual  exile.  Perhaps  there 
is  the  secret  of  beauty — sadness.  Beauty  is  an 
exile  in  this  world,  a  fallen  spirit,  and, whatever 
her  embodiment,  be  it  a  face,  a  flower,  or  a 
gem,  it  carries  with  it  always  its  look  of  exile." 

"Thus,  again,"  said  I,  smiling,  "we  see 
why  opals  are  more  beautiful  than  diamonds. 
The  diamond  is  the  stone  of  this  world.  It 
has  the  prosperous,  contented  look  of  that 
brilliant,  unmysterious  happiness  which 
comes  of  good  health  and  a  bank  account. 
There  is  no  sadness  at  the  cold  heart  of  the 
diamond  —  just  as  there  is  no  sadness  in  this 
glass  of  champagne,  and  therefore  no  appeal 
to  the  imagination,  as  with  the  sad  distin- 
guished wines.  I  doubt  if  people  who  wear 
opals  should  drink  champagne." 

"Ah!  but  you  see  I  wear  diamonds,  too," 
laughed  the  Sphinx. 

"Yes,  there  you  are.  Always  the  best  of 
both  worlds. 


ON  THE  WEARING  OF  OPALS      27 

"True,"  said  the  Sphinx  sadly,  "but  the 
best  is  only  in  one  of  them " 

"  Truth  fully  now,"  I  asked,  "  are  you  quite 
sure  in  which?" 

The  Sphinx  refused  to  commit  herself, 
but  "My  opals  know,"  she  answered,  mus- 
ingly turning  them  to  the  light. 


IV 
NEW  LOVES  FOR  OLD 

HOW  is  it,"  said  the  Sphinx  one  evening, 
"that  you  never  bring  a  poem  with 
you  to  dinner  nowadays?  Have  you  quite 
given  up  writing  them? " 

"Almost,"  I  answered. 

"  But  you  should  n't.     It  is  lazy  of  you." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  it  is  a  kind  of  laziness 
—  but  I  hardly  think  it  is  voluntary,  or  much 
under  my  control.  In  many  ways  I  grow 
more  active  and  industrious  as  I  grow  older. 
I  do  more  work  and  I  work  more  regularly. 
The  laziness  is  certainly  neither  mental  nor 
physical.  It  is  rather  emotional  —  yes!  a 
laziness  of  the  emotional  faculties." 

"  You  cannot  mean  that  you  have  stopped 
falling  in  love?" 

"  I  'm  inclined  to  think  I  have,"  I  laughed; 
"but  that,  like  the  poetry,  is  only  one 
29 


30     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

expression  of  the  laziness  I  mean.  Gener- 
ally, while,  as  I  say,  I  am  less  lazy  in  doing 
than  of  old,  and  while,  as  doctors  would 
say,  my  mental  faculties  are  active  and 
unimpaired,  I  grow  more  and  more  lazy  in 
feeling." 

"Tell  me  some  more " 

"Well,  I  mean  that,  while  my  brain 
grows  year  by  year  more  catholic  in  its 
sympathies,  and  sees  more  clearly  all  the 
time  opportunities  of  feeling  old  and  new, 
my  heart  and  senses  seem  less  and  less  in- 
clined to  second  it  with  any  energy  of  en- 
thusiasm or  excitement.  The  beauty  of  the 
world,  for  example,  never  seemed  more 
beautiful  to  me  than  it  does  now.  I  can  see 
far  more  beauty  in  it  than  I  could  when  I  was 
a  boy,  appreciate  far  more  its  infinite  variety ; 
nor  has  it  lost  in  wonder,  or  mystery  or 
holiness.  All  this  I  see,  and  thankfully 
accept  —  but  it  is  seldom  that  I  am  set  in  a 
fine  glow,  or  that  I  fall  into  a  dream  about  it. 
My  appreciation  of  it  is  no  longer  rapture. 
Yes,  I  have  lost  rapture." 


NEW  LOVES  FOR  OLD  31 

"Poor  old  thing!"  laughed  the  Sphinx 
derisively,  "but  go  on." 

"Laugh,"  said  I,  "but  it's  all  too  true. 
Take  another  illustration :  Some  noble  cause, 
some  ghastly  wrong,  some  agonising  disaster. 
Never  has  my  imagination  been  more  alive 
to  such  appeals;  never  have  they  stirred  me 
to  greater  aspiration,  indignation  or  pity  — 
mentally.  But  while  my  perceptive,  imagi- 
native side  is  thus  more  active  than  ever,  it 
seems  unable  to  set  going  the  motive  forces 
of  feeling,  as  it  used  to  do.  It  were  as  if  I 
should  say  'Oh  yes!  indeed,  I  see  it  all  — 
but  I  '11  feel  about  it  to-morrow.'  Something 
underneath  seems  to  say:  'What  is  the  use 
of  being  excited  about  it  —  of  taking  fire. 
It 's  noble,  it 's  monstrous,  it 's  pitiful  —  but 
what's  the  use!  —  feeling  won't  help.'  To 
think  how  inspired,  how  savage,  how  wrought 
I  should  have  been  once  —  use  or  no  use ! 
But  now " 

"  Tell  me  about  falling  in  love,"  interrupted 
the  Sphinx,  quizzically.  "How  does  this 
sad  state  of  things  affect  that? " 


32     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"  In  just  the  same  way.  I  see  a  beautiful 
face,  or  come  in  contact  with  some  roman- 
tic personality.  I  say  to  myself:  'How 
wonderful  she  is!  I  could  spend  my  life 
looking  into  those  strange  eyes,  and  I  am 
old  enough  to  know  that  I  should  never 
want  to  look  into  any  others/  I  say  to 
myself :  'I  think  I  have  but  to  set  my  heart 
on  it,  and  that  woman  and  I  might  make 
life  a  fairy  tale  for  each  other!'  But  I  raise 
no  hand.  I  am  content  to  see  the  possi- 
bility, content  to  admire  the  opportunity, 
content  to  see  it  pass.  I  am  too  lazy  even 
for  romance. " 

"  And  so  you  write  no  more  poems  ? " 

"  Yes  —  or  very  staid  ones.  As  it  hap- 
pens I  have  brought  you  one  to-night, 
which  you  will  see  is  very  evidently  in- 
spired by  the  muse  of  middle-age.  It 
has  an  unexceptionable  moral,  and  is  en- 
titled 'New  Loves  for  Old/  Shall  I  read 
it?" 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  Sphinx,  and  I  proceeded 
to  read  the  following: 


NEW  LOVES  FOR  OLD  33 

"  'New  Loves  for  Old!'  I  heard  a  pedler  cry, 
'New  Loves  for  Old!'  as  down  the  street 

he  passed, 

And  from  each  door  I  noted  with  a  sigh 
How  all  the  people  ran  at  once  to  buy — 
Bringing  in  hand    the    dimmed    old  loves 
that  last. 

"  'New  Loves  for  Old!'    O  wondrous  fair  and 

bright 
Seem    the    new    loves    against    the   loves 

grown  old, 

So  flower-fresh  and  dewy  with  delight, 
And  burning  as  with  supernatural  light — 
Ah  yes!  the  rest  were  tinsel — this  is  gold! 

"  'New  Loves  for   Old!'    the   pedler  went   his 

way — 
Night  fell,  then  in  my  window  the  bright 

spark 

Of  my  old  love  gave  out  its  constant  ray, 
'How  burn  the  new  loves  that  they  bought 

to-day  ?' 
But  all  the  other  windows  remained  dark." 

" Do  you  mean  it?  Is  it  true?"  asked  the 
Sphinx  when  I  had  finished. 

"  Those  are  nice  questions  for  a  philosopher 
to  ask!"  I  laughed.  "Of  course,  it  is  true 


34     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

for  some  people,  true  of  some  lives,  and  for 
those  I  mean  it." 

"But  what  is  your  own  personal  feeling 
in  the  matter?" 

"I  hardly  know  if  I  have  any  personal 
feeling  about  it." 

"  But  you  wrote  the  poem.  Why  did  you 
write  it  then?" 

"  One  does  n't  write  poems  for  oneself. 
One  writes  them  for  others.  Poetry  is  ad- 
dressed, like  certain  legal  proclamations,  to 
all  whom  it  concerns.  Do  you  remember 
those  lines  of  Straton's  in  the  Greek 
Anthology : 

"  'Love-songs  I  write  for  him  and  her, 
Now  this,  now  that,  as  Love  dictates; 
One  birthday  gift  alone  the  Fates 
Gave  me,  to  be  Love's  Scrivener.' 

"Of  course,  this  is  not  the  whole  truth 
about  the  artist,  but  it  is  a  good  deal  of  it.  In 
a  sense  the  artist  is  the  most  unselfish  of 
human  beings,  for  his  whole  life  is  living  for, 
and  feeling  for,  others.  The  more  lives  and 


NEW  LOVES  FOR  OLD  35 

the  more  various  he  can  live,  the  greater  the 
number  and  the  diversity  of  his  feelings,  the 
greater  his  art.  This  many-mooded  nature 
leads  those  who  misunderstand  his  function 
frequently  to  cry  out  that  he  is  insincere; 
the  fact  being  that  he  is  so  sincere  in  so 
many  different  ways  that  to  hasty  observers 
his  imaginative  sympathy  has  the  look  of 
inconsistency." 

"  But  come  now,  you  need  n't  pretend  to 
be  so  superior  to  our  common  human  nature 
as  all  that!  If  you  yourself  had  to  choose 
between  one  of  your  dimmed  old  loves  that 
last,  and  one  of  the  peddler's  brilliant  novel- 
ties, which  would  you  choose?" 

"It  would  depend  who  I  was  at  the 
moment." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  —  be  serious." 

"But  I  am.  It  would  depend,  at  all 
events,  on  what  kind  of  love  I  felt  most  in 
need  of  at  the  moment  —  one's  needs  are  so 
different  from  day  to  day.  Old  loves  give  us 
certain  satisfactions,  and  new  loves  give  us 
certain  other  satisfactions." 


36     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Well,  tell  me  what  those  different  satis- 
factions are." 

"  Old  Love  brings  you  the  sense  of  security, 
of  shelter,  of  peace;  it  has  the  warm-home 
charm  of  kindly  long-known  things,  the 
beauty  of  beautiful  habit,  the  nimbus  and 
the  authority  of  religion.  In  fact,  it  has  all 
that  belongs  to  the  word  'old'  used  in  the 
laudatory  sense.  Its  value  is  the  value  of 
the  known  —  whereas  the  value  of  new  love 
is  largely  the  value  of  the  unknown." 

"You  mean  that  the  value  of  new  love 
lies  largely  in  its  newness." 

"Certainly.  Mere  novelty,  as  the  world 
admits  on  every  hand,  has  real  value;  the 
value  of  refreshment,  at  least.  In  fact, 
novelty  is  the  truest  friend  of  old  feeling,  as 
it  makes  us  feel  the  old  feelings  over  again  — 
which  might  hardly  happen  without  its 
assistance.  Besides,  love  is  even  more  an 
imaginative  than  an  emotional  need,  and  the 
new  love  speaks  to  the  imagination.  Love 
needs  wonder  to  live  on  quite  as  much  as 
secure  affection.  The  new  love  appeals  to 


NEW  LOVES  FOR  OLD  37 

one's  sense  of  strangeness,  one's  spirit  of 
adventure.  As  we  stand  silent  upon  that 
peak  in  Darien  —  who  knows,  we  say  to  our 
hushed  expectant  hearts,  who  knows  but 
that  this  is  Eldorado  at  last " 

"We  only  say  that  when  the  old  was  not 
Eldorado,"  put  in  the  Sphinx. 

"O  of  course!"  I  admitted  hastily. 


The  Death  of  the  Poet 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET 

THE  poet  lay  dying.  He  was  not  a  good 
grey  poet.  Indeed,  some  of  those  who 
pass  judgments  upon  complex  lives,  with  the 
spontaneity  of  simple  ignorance,  would  no 
doubt  have  called  him  the  bad  grey  poet. 
Though  he  was  hardly  forty,  there  were 
already  snowdrifts  here  and  there  among  his 
thick  locks. 

For  a  long  while  he  had  known  that  he  was 
soon  to  die.  Dreams  had  told  him,  and  he 
had  seen  it  written  on  the  faces  that  looked 
at  him  in  the  street.  The  foreknowledge  did 
not  in  the  least  trouble  him.  Indeed,  while 
he  was  far  from  being  a  lachrymose  senti- 
mentalist, and  life  had  for  him  even  more 
zest  than  when  he  was  a  boy,  yet  he  had  for 
some  time  been  weary  of  the  long  battle,  and 
the  news  was  less  the  threat  of  death  than  the 
promise  of  rest. 

41 


42      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

And  now  the  rest  was  coming.  There 
was  only  one  consideration  that  made  him 
cling  to  life,  or,  rather,  suddenly  rouse  himself 
to  wrest  a  short  reprieve.  It  was'  the  last 
sentiment  his  numerous  detractors  would 
have  believed  of  him.  Like  all  really  great 
poets,  he  was  much  in  debt.  Debt,  indeed, 
had  hovered  like  a  raven,  or  rather  a  cloud 
of  ravens,  croaking  over  the  whole  course  of 
his  life.  In  his  secret  heart,  and  even  in 
occasional  outspoken  utterance,  he  held  that 
the  world  owed  him  far  more  than  he  owed 
it;  yet  it  should  not  be  said  of  him  that  he 
died  in  debt!  Therefore  he  had  girded  him- 
self up  to  one  last  tremendous  orgie  of  crea- 
tion, so  that  his  creditors  should  be  paid  to 
the  uttermost  farthing.  His  friends,  who 
knew  nothing  of  the  summons  that  had  come 
to  him,  for  he  looked  like  living  for  years, 
marvelled  at  the  sudden  outburst  of  his 
energy.  Sometimes,  in  a  mood  of  fantastic 
irony,  he  would  say  to  them, "Do  you  know 
what  keeps  me  alive  ? ' '  And  he  would  answer, 
" My  creditors"  —  to  their  shouts  of  derisive 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        43 

laughter.  Imagine  Pagan  Wasteneys  giving 
a  thought  to  his  creditors! 

But  it  was  true  for  all  that,  as  Wasteneys 's 
familiar  doctor  could  attest:  for  on  one 
occasion  Wasteneys,  being  taken  with  a 
sudden  attack  of  the  heart  and  apparently 
near  death,  had  burst  into  tears  —  not  at 
the  thought  of  his  wife,  not  at  the  thought  of 
his  two  little  girls,  but  at  the  thought  of  his 
creditors.  After  all,  he  was  to  die  in  debt! 
That  thought  alone  obsessed  him,  leaving 
room  for  no  other  —  tenderness.  However, 
oxygen  granted  him  still  another  reprieve, 
and  once  more  he  worked  like  a  madman 
till  at  last  he  had  written  enough. 

Then,  laying  down  his  pen  upon  the  desk 
for  the  last  time,  he  said,  "I  am  ready  to 
die." 

Thereon  his  valet  undressed  him,  taking 
away  the  clothes  he  had  worn  for  the  last 
time,  and  the  poet  luxuriously  stretched 
himself  in  the  white  bed,  from  which  no  duty 
would  ever  call  him  to  rise  again. 

For  a  long  while  he  lay  back  dreamily 


44     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

enjoying  the  thought  —  of  his  readiness  to 
die.  At  last  he  had  been  able  to  wring  from 
life  the  privilege  to  die. 

The  faces  of  his  creditors  came  back  to 
him  with  a  positive  beauty,  haloed,  so  to 
speak,  with  this  last  shining  achievement. 
Honest,  true-hearted  men,  he  felt  that  he 
should  care  a  little  to  look  in  their  faces  once 
more  and  shake  their  hands.  Indeed,  he 
almost  regretted  that  he  had  to  die  when  he 
thought  of  their  honest  faces.  What  a 
beautiful  world  —  when  to  the  eyes  of  a  dying 
poet  his  creditors  even  seem  beautiful ! 

Presently  he  sent  for  his  lawyer  —  who 
had  helped  him  through  many  a  difficult 
pass  —  and  when  the  lawyer  had  come,  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  him. 

"Old  friend,"  he  cried,  "congratulate  me. 
At  last  the  bankrupt  has  his  discharge.  The 
court  allows  me  to  die " 

"Rubbish!"  answered  the  lawyer;  "none 
of  your  death's-head  humour.  But  you  really 
mean  that  you  have  finished  your  book?  I 
do  indeed  congratulate  you " 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        45 

"  Yes !  My  last  book.  Unless  I  should  be 
expected  to  write  for  my  living  in  some  other 
world,  I  have  written  my  last  word,  dipped 
my  pen  in  ink  for  the  last  time " 

The  lawyer  gently  bantered  him.  "If 
only  it  were  true,"  he  said,  "what  good  news 
for  your  readers!  .  .  .  ." 

"Laugh  as  much  as  you  like  .  .  .  . 
but  you  will  see.  A  very  few  days  will  show. ' ' 

"You  fantastic  fellow  ....  what 
do  you  mean?  You  know  there  is  nothing 
whatever  the  matter  with  you.  You  cannot 
die  without  some  disease,  or  by  some  accident 
—  unless  you  intend  to  be  so  commonplace 

as  to  commit  suicide " 

» 

"No!  none  of  those,"  answered  Was- 
teneys,  with  his  odd  smile;  "I  am  going  to 
die  —  out  of  sheer  weariness ;  and,  by  the 
way,  I  want  you  to  insist  upon  this  epitaph 
being  engraved  upon  my  urn:  ' Pagan  Was- 
teneys.  Born  1866;  bored  to  death  — 

1905.-  - 

"Of  course  I  will  promise  no  such  thing," 
answered  the  lawyer. 


46      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Well,  then  I  must  instruct  some  mor- 
tuary engraver  myself But  tell 

me  —  you  have  brought  with  you  the  sched- 
ule of  my  debts  ?  How  much  exactly  do  they 
amount  to?" 

The  lawyer  drew  a  bulky  paper  from  his 
pocket. 

"Here  is  the  schedule,"  he  said,  and  then 
glancing  at  the  total  of  many  pages  of  figures, 
he  answered,  "They  are  close  on  ten  thou- 
sand pounds " 

"  'Tis  a  good  round  sum,"  said  the  poet, 
"but  in  two  years  I  have  earned  it,  every 
penny,  and  more  besides." 

"  It  is  marvellous, "  said  the  lawyer. 

"  It  sounds  like  a  dream, "  said  the  poet, 
"  but  it  is  true.  Think  what  fun  one  might 
have  with  ten  thousand  pounds  —  if  one  were 
not  going  to  die " 

"  Or  pay  one's  debts  at  last, "  laughed  the 
lawyer. 

"  That  reminds  me  that  I  have  a  fancy  for 
the  manner  of  paying  them,  in  which  I  hope 
you  will  humour  me.  I  wish  to  pay  each  credi- 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET       47 

tor  in  person,  and  I  wish  to  pay  him  in  solid 
gold.  I  would,  therefore,  ask  you  to  send  out 
a  notice  inviting  them  here  at  noon  to-day 
week;  that  is,  Wednesday  week  —  I  shall 
not  die  till  Friday.  " 

Though  he  was  quite  serious,  the  poet  could 
not  help  laughing  at  this  final  touch,  and  the 
lawyer  joined  in.  "You  humbug  1"  he  ex- 
claimed ;  but,  for  all  that,  the  poet  was  able 
to  convince  him  of  his  seriousness  after  a 
while. 

"  I  would  have  them  pass  before  me  one  by 
one,  as  I  lie  propped  up  on  pillows  on  my 
death-bed,  and  I  shall  expect  each  one  first 
to  bend  down  and  kiss  my  hand.  Then  a 
clerk  will  call  out  his  name  in  a  loud  voice,  and 
the  amount  of  the  debt,  and  another  clerk 
shall  weigh  out  to  him  the  amount  in  gold. 
.  .  .  .  I  intend  it  to  be  a  kind  of  tri- 
umphal lying  in  state.  But  we  can  discuss  the 
exact  details  later.  I  feel  a  little  tired.  The 
shadows  are  already  weighing  down  my  eye- 
lids .  .  .  ."and  the  poet  laughed  again 
his  sad  sinister  laugh ;  though,  indeed,  it  was 


48     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

true  enough,  as  the  lawyer,  looking  at  him, 
could  not  fail  to  note. 

"Good-night,  old  friend,"  said  the  poet; 
"come  and  see  me  again  tomorrow;"  and, 
when  the  lawyer  had  gone,  he  once  more 
stretched  himself  out  in  the  bed,  luxuriously 
murmuring  the  lines  he  had  murmured  night- 
ly for  so  many  years : 

"  If  rest  be  sweet  at  close  of  day 
For  tired  hands  and  tired  feet, 
How  good  at  last  to  rest  for  aye  — 
If  rest  be  sweet." 

The  lying  in  state,  as  the  poet  grimly  called 
it,  was  conducted  exactly  as  he  had  conceived 
it.  At  first  the  lawyer  had  protested  that 
to  expect  your  honest  English  tradesman  to 
bow  the  knee  and  kiss  the  hand  of  one  of  his 
debtors  was  out  of  the  question. 

"Take  my  word,  friend,"  said  the  poet, 
"  when  a  tradesman  is  going  to  be  paid  a  debt 
he  had  given  up  for  lost,  he  will  not  be  partic- 
ular as  to  the  manner  in  which  he  receives  it. 
Indeed,  he  will  be  so  thankful  for  it  that  it 
will  be  a  natural  impulse  to  fall  upon  his 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET         49 

knees  ....  And  if  they  demur,"  he 
added,  laughing  his  half -boyish,  half -wicked, 
and  quite  creepy  laugh,  "  tell  them  that  it  is 
the  fancy  of  a  dying  man. " 

When  the  noon  of  Wednesday  came,  the 
poet  lay  in  his  great  bed  awaiting  his  creditors. 
There  had  only  been  a  week  since  his  talk 
with  his  lawyer,  but  even  that  good-natured 
sceptic  had  come  to  admit  the  truth  of  his 
client's  prediction.  No  one  could  look  on 
that  weary  form  stretched  so  straight  and 
slim  under  the  clothes,  or  upon  that  worn 
ivory  face,  so  worn  and  yet  so  strangely 
smiling,  without  reading  the  unmistakable 
signs. 

"  Do  you  believe  it  now? "  said  the  poet  to 
his  lawyer.  "It  is  only  a  jest  —  you  must 
not  take  it  too  seriously.  It  is  only  death. 
Don't  be  unhappy,  old  friend.  I  wish  I 
could  make  you  know  how  good  it  feels  —  to 
be  dying." 

Then  a  little  soft-voiced  clock  chimed 
twelve  times. 

"Now  for  the  fun  .    .    .    .    "  said  the  poet, 


50     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

looking  up  to  his  friend,  with  his  eyes  filled 
with  laughter. 

It  had  been  his  whim  to  have  his  room 
draped  in  purple,  and  over  his  bed  hung  a 
great  wreath  of  laurel  still  in  flower.  At  one 
side  of  the  large  room  was  a  table  also  covered 
in  purple,  on  which  were  arranged  twelve  great 
pyramids  of  gold  pieces,  and  on  two  other 
tables  close  by  were  two  large  bags  of  orange- 
coloured  leather  overflowing  with  silver. 

As  the  clock  chimed  twelve,  two  footmen 
clad  in  a  livery  of  dull-gold  silk,  with  sprigs  of 
laurel  worked  upon  the  collars  of  their  coats, 
threw  open  the  folding  doors  of  the  spacious 
room,  and  a  crowd  of  awed  and  almost  sepul- 
chral English  tradesmen  entered  in  a  hushed 
and  timorous  fashion.  They  were  dressed 
appropriately,  as  for  a  funeral,  and  a  few  of 
them  wore  crape  round  their  hats.  They 
trod  softly,  like  butlers,  and  were  evidently 
a  good  deal  overawed  and  indeed  frightened. 

And  in  truth  it  was  a  scene  calculated  to 
astonish.  For  as  they  entered,  there  facing 
them  in  the  middle  of  the  room  lay  Wasteneys, 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        5 1 

/ 
with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  hands  crossed, 

and  the  great  laurel  wreath  over  his  head; 
and  to  his  right,  at  one  side  of  the  room,  stood 
the  table  heaped  with  gold,  which  glittered 
still  more  brightly  beneath  the  beams  of 
twelve  immense  candlesticks.  If  anything 
could  gleam  brighter,  it  was  the  eyes  of  the 
creditors,  whose  expression  was  a  mixture 
of  gaping  astonishment  at  the  piled-up  gold 
and  hushed  wonder  at  the  white  distinguished 
figure  in  the  bed. 

When  they  were  seated  on  the  gilded  Em- 
pire chairs  provided  for  them,  a  secretary 
clad  in  black  rose  from  a  seat  by  the  dying 
man's  side  and  read  a  brief  salutation,  in 
which  Pagan  Wasteneys,  a  poet  of  the  realm 
of  England,  desired  upon  his  death-bed  to 
thank  in  person  those  honourable  mercers  and 
general  purveyors  who  had  for  so  many  years 
shown  him  so  great  a  consideration  in  respect 
of  certain  moneys  which  he  owed  them,  in 
exchange  for  certain  necessities  of  existence  — 
among  which  necessities  luxuries,  of  course, 
were  included.  Mr.  Wasteneys  desired  to 


52      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

add  that  his  delay  to  satisfy  these  obligations 
had  come  of  no  wilful  neglect  on  his  part,  but 
had  been  occasioned  by  the  many  sorrows  — 
not  to  speak  of  the  many  expenses  —  incident 
to  the  profession  of  a  poet.  He  had  invited 
them  to  meet  him  for  the  last  time  in  this  way 
that  he  might  personally  express  his  gratitude 
to  them  —  at  the  same  moment  that  he  satis- 
fied his  indebtedness,  with  compound  interest 
at  five  per  cent. 

As  the  secretary  concluded  with  this 
eloquent  peroration,  Wasteneys  opened  his 
eyes  for  the  first  time,  and  raised  his  head 
from  the  pillow,  with  a  weary  attempt  at  a 
bow,  and  motioned  with  his  hand  toward  the 
company  —  his  hand  thereafter  lying  white 
and  fragile  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  For  a 
moment  a  smile  flickered  over  his  lips,  but 
only  his  lawyer  observed  it,  and,  next  mo- 
ment, he  was  gravely  prepared  for  the  con- 
clusion of  the  ceremony. 

Presently  a  clerk  dressed  in  a  prim  costume 
of  the  finest  broadcloth  rose  and  called  out 
the  name  of  Peter  Allardyce,  vintner  —  the 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        53 

names  of  the  creditors  being  called  out  in 
alphabetical  order  —  at  the  same  time  nam- 
ing the  sum  of  £763.19.7  as  due  to  him, 
inclusive  of  interest  at  five  per  cent.  At 
the  summons,  a  shy,  ruddy  man  of  country 
build  rose  from  his  chair,  and  being  led  by 
one  of  the  footmen  to  the  dying  man's  side, 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  frail  hand  on 
the  coverlet.  Wasteneys  acknowledged  the 
courtesy  with  a  tired  smile,  and  Mr.  Allardyce 
was  then  conducted  by  the  footman  to  the 
table  piled  with  gold,  where  another  clerk,  also 
dressed  in  broadcloth,  like  his  fellow,  weighed 
out  to  him  the  amount  of  his  debt,  pouring  the 
bright  gold  into  a  great  bag  of  purple  leather. 

"William  Dimmock,"  once  more  cried 
out  the  first  clerk,  "  livery-stable  keeper,  for 
carriage-hire,  the  sum  of  £378.10.3,  inclusive 
of  interest  at  five  per  cent." 

A  lean,  horsy  little  man  thereon  rose  from 
his  chair  and  went  through  the  same  cere- 
mony as  his  predecessor,  retiring  also  with 
a  great  bag  of  purple  leather  bursting  with 
gold  pieces. 


54     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

And  so  the  odd  ceremony  proceeded.  It 
would  be  tedious  to  follow  it  through  its 
details;  though  one  may  observe  that  of 
all  the  creditors  that  followed,  the  heaviest 
were  Peter  Markham,  florist,  and  Jasper 
Dyce,  jeweller,  for  flowers  and  gems  lavished 
by  the  dying  man  on  forgotten  women. 

When  it  was  all  over,  and  Wasteneys  was 
left  alone  with  his  lawyer  and  his  physician, 
he  buried  his  face  in  the  pillows,  and  laughed 
as  if  his  heart  would  break  —  laughed  indeed 
so  violently  that  his  physician  had  to  warn 
him  that  such  mirth  was  dangerous  in  his 
present  state  —  unless,  indeed,  he  wished  to 
die  of  laughter. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Wasteneys;  "I  have 
other  farewells  to  make.  But,  O  was  n't  it 
delicious!  And  think  of  it  —  like  the  village 
blacksmith,  I  owe  not  any  man!  What 
honest,  kind  fellows  they  were!  I  am  so 
glad  to  have  seen  them  before  I  die/' 

"You  must  see  no  one  else  to-day,"  said 
his  physician,  presently,  "  if  you  wish  to  make 
those  other  farewells." 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET       55 

"  I  have  still  to-morrow  and  most  of  Friday. 
I  shall  go  out,  like  Falstaff,  'even  at  the 
turning  of  the  tide/  "  he  said,  laughing  softly 
at  himself,  as  he  had  done  all  his  life,  and 
repeating  to  himself  the  phrase  that  had 
romantically  touched  his  fancy  —  "  even  at 
the  turning  of  the  tide!  ....  even  at 
the  turning  of  the  tide!" 

"What  am  I  dying  of,  doctor?"  he  said, 
presently. 

"I  can  see  no  reason  why  you  should  be 
dying  at  all,"  answered  the  physician,  "  unless 
it  is  pure  whim." 

"Perhaps  it  is  partly  that,"  said  the  poet, 
"  but  I  think  it  is  chiefly  because  —  I  have 
lived.  To  live  longer  would  be  mere  repeti- 
tion. I  have  just  enjoyed  the  last  new 
experience  life  had  to  give  me  —  and  I  almost 
think  it  was  the  most  wonderful  of  all.  It 
was  the  last  touch  of  romance  needed  to 
complete  a  romantic  life  —  to  have  paid  my 
debts!  You  are  right.  That  was  indeed 
enough  excitement  for  one  day.  I  will 
sleep  now  —  the  happiest  man  in  the  world." 


56     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

He  had  hardly  finished  speaking  before 
he  had  fallen  into  one  of  those  sudden  deep 
sleeps  that  come  and  go  fitfully  with  the  dying. 
He  lay  on  his  back,  his  hands  crossed,  and  a 
smile  of  infinite  serenity  and  thankfulness  on 
his  face.  Over  his  head  hung  the  great  laurel 
wreath,  still  in  flower 

Still  in  flower! 

"It  is  strange  that  he  should  choose  so 
deliberately  to  die  —  for  he  has  still  a  great 
future  in  store  for  him,'*  said  the  physician 
to  himself  as  he  went  out,  giving  on  his  way 
certain  instructions  to  the  nurse-in-waiting. 

The  physician,  like  the  majority  of  human 
beings,  confounded  the  length  of  a  man's 
life  with  the  success  of  it  —  as  was,  perhaps, 
peculiarly  natural  in  a  man  whose  business 
was  the  lengthening  of  human  existence. 
To  die  before  sixty  was  to  him  a  form  of 
failure,  and  he  himself,  already  sixty-three, 
was  still,  with  childish  eagerness,  pursuing 
certain  prizes,  professional  and  social,  at 
which  Wasteneys  would  indeed  have  smiled. 
He  dreamed,  for  instance,  of  a  knighthood. 


THE  DEATH  OP  THE  POET        57 

Now  one  of  Wasteneys's  great  fears  had  been 
that  he  should  not  be  in  a  position  to  die 
before  he  was  knighted.  That  had  in  some 
degree  accounted  for  the  fury  of  his  pro- 
duction during  the  last  two  years.  He 
would  not  indeed  have  disdained  to  have 
been  made  a  lord,  but  that  necessitated  living 
so  much  longer,  and  writing  so  many  more 
words  —  and  really  it  was  not  worth  it.  He 
regarded  his  life  as  completed  —  at  least  to 
his  own  satisfaction.  To  take  it  up  again 
would  be  to  begin  an  entirely  new  career. 
Already,  as  rich  men  are  said  to  go  through 
two  or  three  fortunes,  Wasteneys  had  run 
through  three  careers.  Three  seemed  enough. 
He  had  won  all  the  prizes  he  cared  for.  The 
rest  could  only  be  humorous.  So,  "  Good-bye, 
proud  world;  I'm  going  home!" 

Next  morning,  when  his  toilet  had  been 
made  for  him  by  the  beautiful  nurse-in- 
waiting  and  his  faithful  man  servant,  Waste- 
neys received  his  physician  and  his  lawyer; 
and  then,  as  the  little  clock  chimed  the  hour 
of  noon,  he  said: 


58      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  begin  my  farewells." 

He  made  it  evident  that  he  wished  to  be 
alone,  except  for  his  own  friend  the  lawyer. 
So,  when  the  two  were  left  together  in^the 
room,  he  turned  to  the  lawyer  and  said: 

"Dear  friend,  bring  me  the  Beautiful 
Face  .  .  .  ."adding,  "the  key  is  here 
under  my  pillow." 

Taking  the  key,  the  lawyer  unlocked  an 
old  cabinet  in  a  shadowy  corner  of  the  room, 
and  presently  returned  to  the  bedside,  carry- 
ing in  his  hands  a  small  urn  of  exquisite 
workmanship.  Placing  it  on  a  low  table 
near  to  the  poet's  hand,  the  lawyer,  who  had 
been  the  confidant  of  the  poet's  tragedy, 
made  a  sign  of  understanding,  and  left  the 
room. 

On  the  wall  facing  the  end  of  the  poet's  bed 
had  hung  for  seven  years  the  picture  of  a 
marvellously  beautiful  girl.  She  was  so 
exceptional  in  her  beauty  that  to  attempt 
description  of  her  would  be  futile.  Suffice 
it  that  her  face  —  framed  in  night-black 
hair,  and  tragically  lit  by  enormous  black 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        59 

eyes  —  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  nobil- 
ity of  its  expression  and  for  its  sense  of 
elemental  power.  It  was  a  face  full  of 
silence  —  a  dark  flower  of  a  face,  so  to  say, 
rooted  deep  down  in  the  mysterious  strengths 
of  nature.  If  one  may  use  such  an  expression 
of  a  thing  so  delicate,  she  seemed  like  a  rock 
of  beauty,  against  which  a  whole  world  of 
men  might  dash  their  tribute  hearts  in  vain. 
Other  faces  might  seem  more  attractive, 
more  formally  beautiful,  but  to  few  faces  had 
it  been  given  to  concentrate  the  cold  imperi- 
alism of  beauty  as  it  was  concentrated  in  this 
exquisite  face. 

This  face  was  the  real  meaning  of  the 
poet's  life.  The  rest  was  mere  badinage, 
screening  a  sad  heart.  This  face  was  the 
real  meaning  of  the  poet's  gladness  at  his 
approaching  death.  This  life  held  no  more 
expectations  for  him  —  but  the  next?  Who 
knows?  —  perhaps  to-morrow  night  he  would 
be  with  her  in  Paradise. 

Looking  long  at  the  picture  of  the  Beautiful 
Face,  he  turned  —  to  the  Beautiful  Face 


60     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

itself;  for  it  had  now  been  silver  dust  for 
four  years.  Drawing  the  urn  to  him,  he 
read  once  more  the  name  upon  the  little  gold 
plate  let  into  the  bronze: 

Meriel  Wasteneys:  Died  March  16,   1900. 

And  underneath  the  name  he  read  some  lines 
inscribed  in  gold : 

"  O  Beauty,  art  thou  also  dust? 

These  silver  ashes  —  can  it  be 
That  you,  thus  silting  through  my  hand, 

Once  made  a  madman  out  of  me!" 

"And  a  madman  still,"  he  added,  laughing 
sadly  to  himself. 

Then  raising  the  lid  of  the  urn,  he  looked 
in.  The  white  ash  filled  but  half  the  little 
urn.  Gently  thrusting  in  his  hand,  he  let 
the  ashes  sift  through  his  long  fingers  over 
and  over  again,  and  as  he  did  so  he  gazed  at 
the  Beautiful  Face  upon  the  wall 

After  a  while  he  replaced  the  lid  upon  the 
urn,  and  lay  back  with  closed  eyes  —  think- 
ing of  it  all. 

Presently  the  lawyer  returned  softly  into 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        6 1 

the  room,  and  fancying  him  asleep,  was 
about  to  leave  again,  but  Wasteneys  had 
heard  him. 

"Is  that  you?"  he  said.  "Come  to  me. 
I  have  said  good-bye.  You  know  where  my 
ashes  are  to  lie." 

The  lawyer  assented,  locking  the  urn  once 
more  in  the  cabinet,  and  bringing  the  key 
back  again  to  Wasteneys.  The  little  urn, 
as  I  have  said,  was  as  yet  only  half  filled. 

The  two  friends  sat  silent  together  for  a 
long  time,  saying  nothing,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  say.  Both  knew  all. 

After  a  while  the  poet  turned  to  his  friend. 
"Will  you  ask  Isabel,  my  wife,  to  come  to 
me?"  he  said.  And  presently  there  entered 
the  room  a  woman  so  fragilely  beautiful  that 
she  seemed  to  be  made  of  moonbeams.  She 
was  indeed,  compared  to  the  Beautiful  Face 
on  the  wall,  as  the  moon  to  the  sun.  That, 
alas!  had  been  her  place  in  the  poet's  life. 
She  had  been  the  moon  to  the  Beautiful 
Face.  And  yet,  in  his  strange  way,  the  poet 
had  always  loved  her,  deep  down 


62     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Very  deep  down!"  she  used  to  say  some- 
times, with  a  sad  smile. 

As  she  came  and  sat  beside  him,  he  took 
her  face  tenderly  in  his  hands,  and  looked 
and  looked  into  her  fairy  blue  eyes  without 
a  word.  A  curiously  lined  face  it  was  for  so 
young  a  woman  —  all  beautiful  silver  lines 
filled  with  delicate  refinements  of  thought 
and  feeling.  "Suffering,"  said  the  ignorant 
world,  attributing  these  silver  lines  to  the 
unfaithfulness  of  the  poet.  Yet,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  Isabel's  face  had  been  hardly  less 
lined  when  she  was  twenty.  The  poet  and 
the  years  together  had  barely  added  half  a 
dozen  lines.  In  fact,  nature  had  seemed  to 
intend,  when  making  Isabel's  face,  to  show 
that  beauty  is  something  more  than  velvet 
skin  and  dreamy  eyes  and  rounded  contours ; 
to  prove  that  nothing  is  needed  for  the  making 
of  a  beautiful  face  but  —  light.  Isabel's 
face,  indeed,  seemed  made  of  light.  The 
lines  in  it  were  like  rays  of  brightness,  and 
her  eyes  like  deep  springs  of  purest  radiance. 

There  was,  after  all,  something  in  Isabel's 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET         63 

face  that  the  poet  had  seen  only  there, 
something  "fairy"  that  he  had  never  ceased 
loving  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world. 
But  Life  had  had  its  way  with  them.  Strong 
currents  beyond  the  control  of  either  had 
torn  them  apart,  brought  them  together 
again,  and  then  again  torn  them  apart.  Still, 
they  had  never  really  lost  faith  in  each  other's 
natures,  and  though  an  impertinent  world 
had  misunderstood  their  mutual  forbear- 
ance, they  had  never  misunderstood  each 
otherv 

"Isabel!"  said  the  poet,  still  holding  her 
face  like  a  star  in  his  hands,  "  I  am  going  to 
die,  and  I  have  called  you  to  congratulate 
me  —  as  I  know  so  wise  a  girl  will.  For  we 
both  know,  better  than  any  one,  that  it  is 
best." 

Isabel's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  releasing 
her  face  from  his  hands,  she  buried  it  in  the 
bedclothes.  Presently  mastering  her  feeling, 
she  raised  her  head  again,  and  looking  with 
infinite  pity  into  the  poet's  eyes,  she  said : 

"  O  my  dear  boy  —  cannot  you  be  human 


64     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

at  last:  just  once  before  you  die?  I  have 
always  thought  of  you  like  some  Undine, 
a  beautiful,  gentle,  elemental  being  —  lacking 
only  a  human  soul.  Indeed,  sometimes  I 
have  thought  of  you  as  a  god  —  sitting  aloof 
from  our  little  every  day  interests  —  but  God 
knows  I  have  loved  you  all  the  time,  and  you 
only  shall  I  love  in  all  my  life " 

The  poet  once  more  took  her  face  in  his 
hands,  and  looking  into  her  nereid  eyes,  he 
said :  "  Wife,  dear  wife  —  forgive  the  sorrow 
I  have  brought  you.  If  there  was  any  joy, 
remember  that.  Life  is  very  difficult,  very 
strange.  It  was  all  no  fault  of  ours,  not  even 
mine.  I  see  it  now  very  clearly  —  now  that 
I  am  dying.  I  see  how  wrong  I  have  been  — 
I  see  how  right.  I  see  how  right  you  have 
been  —  I  see  how  wrong.  Let  us  forgive 
each  other.  Let  us  be  in  love  again  before  I 
die.  Give  me  your  eyes.  Let  me  kiss  them 
once  before  I  die " 

Then,  a  sudden  thought  taking  him,  "I 
wonder,  dear,"  he  said,  "if  you  can  find  my 
"  Euripides. ' '  There  is  a  passage  I  am  thinking 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        65 

of  in  The  Alcestis.'  It  would  comfort  Ine 
to  hear  it  again " 

Presently  his  wife  brought  him  the  volume, 
and  turning  over  the  pages,  the  poet  at  last 
found  the  passage  he  was  in  search  of. 

"Yes!  this  is  it,"  he  said: 

"  'Now  have  I  moored  my  bark  of  life  in  a 
happier  haven  than  before,  and  so  will  own 
myself  a  happy  man.'  ' 

Then  leaning  back  on  his  pillow,  "  Tell  me 
Isabel,"  he  said,  "why  is  there  so  mysterious 
a  comfort  in  words?" 

"Alas!  dear,  it  is  for  you  to  tell  me,"  she 
said,  stroking  his  hair;  "you  have  loved 
words  so  well  —  and  made  so  many  beauti- 
ful words." 

"  I  know  you  think  that  I  have  loved  noth- 
ing but  words,"  said  the  poet;  "I  wonder  if 
it  is  true?  ....  I  think  not." 

"I  think  you  meant  to  love  life  as  well," 
she  answered,  kissing  his  brow  gently. 

She  smoothed  his  hair  a  long  while  as  they 
sat  in  silence  together  —  the  past  rolling  over 
them  like  a  river. 


66     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Presently  Wasteneys  broke  the  silence. 
"  I  have  walked  in  a  vague  course! "  he  said  — 
"walked  in  a  vague  course!  ....  if 
you  will  forgive,"  he  added,  presently,  "my 
quoting  once  more.  A  dying  man  should 
not  quote.  He  is  expected  to  say  some- 
thing original.  Well,  I  will  try  to-morrow 
>» 

Then  there  fell  over  him  once  more  that 
ante-lethal  drowsiness  of  death,  and  mur- 
muring again,  "I  have  walked  in  a  vague 
course! "  he  fell  asleep. 

When  she  was  sure  he  was  asleep,  his  wife 
bent  over  him  and  kissed  his  lips. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  "he  has  never  grown 
up.  He  is  a  baby  still  —  just  a  child,  that 
is  all " 

Wasteneys  awoke  after  a  little  while, 
to  find  himself  alone,  save  for  the  silent 
presence  of  his  lawyer. 

"I  fell  asleep,"  he  said,  "foolishly  enough 
—  for  I  have  little  time  to  waste ;  and  I  shall 

soon  have  all  the  sleep  I  want " 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added :  "I  wish  to  say 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        67 

good-bye  to  my  little  girls.  Will  you  have 
them  brought  to  me?" 

Presently  there  entered  the  room  two 
beautiful  children,  one  about  twelve  years 
old,  and  the  other  five.  They  came  hand 
in  hand,  laughing,  and  ran  across  to  their 
father's  bed,  gleefully  ignorant  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  still  room,  and  the  pur- 
ple hangings,  and  the  white  figure  in  the 
bed. 

"Daddy!  daddy!"  they  cried,  climbing 
upon  the  bed.  "  What  a  time  it  is  since  we 
saw  you!  ....  Tell  us  a  story  right 
away." 

The  father  took  the  long  brown-gold  curls 
of  the  elder  girl  in  his  hands,  and  stroked 
the  sunshine  head  of  the  little  one.  "Kid- 
dies," he  said,  after  a  while,  "your  daddy  is 
going  on  a  long  journey.  Will  you  think  of 
him  and  love  him  while  he  is  gone?" 

"Where  are  you  going,  daddy?"  asked 
the  two  young  voices. 

"O  ever  so  far!  It's  a  country  called 
'East  of  the  Sun  and  West  of  the  Moon.'  " 


68     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"  O  take  us  with  you,  daddy.  It  sounds 
such  a  lovely  place." 

"  I  cannot  take  you  with  me,  kiddies  — 
but  perhaps  mother  and  you  and  I  will  meet 
there  one  of  these  days  ....  if  we  're 
all  very  good!" 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  with  you  now,  daddy," 
said  the  elder  girl;  and  the  younger,  out  of 
sheer  reverence  for  her  elder  sister,  repeated 
her. 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  with  you  now,  daddy," 
she  said. 

"No,"  said  the  father;  "you  must  stay 
behind  and  look  after  Little  Mother.  She 
would  be  so  lonely  without  you." 

The  children,  with  the  volatility  of  their 
age,  accepted  this  explanation,  and  presently 
once  more  turned  to  their  father  with  a 
demand  for  a  story. 

"No!"  he  said;  "it  is  your  turn  to  tell 
me  a  story.  I  am  tired  to-day.  You,  Per- 
venche,  must  say  for  me  'The  Three  Kings/ 
and  you,  Golla,  must  say  'The  White  Bird.' 
I  haven't  heard  you  say  them  for  quite  a 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET        69 

long  time.  And  each  standing  up  in  turn, 
like  a  corporal  saluting  his  captain,  Pervenche 
and  Golla  recited  their  little  pieces;  and  as 
they  recited,  the  tears  rolled  down  their 
father's  cheeks. 

"You  are  crying,  daddy,"  suddenly  ex- 
claimed the  little  one.  "What  are  you 
crying  for?" 

The  poet  was  crying  because,  among  all  the 
many  human  experiences  he  had  missed, 
he  had  missed  his  children  too. 

Their  nurse  near  at  hand  rescued  him  from 
the  dilemma.  "Daddy  is  tired,"  she  said; 
"bid  him  good-bye " 

And,  wonderingly,  the  little  creatures 
obeyed;  but  the  tiny  Golla,  already  a  sturdy 
sceptic,  kept  asking,  when  they  were  once 
more  in  the  nursery,  "  I  wonder  why  daddy 
cried!" 

When  his  little  girls  had  gone,  Wasteneys 
turned  to  his  lawyer. 

"What  time  is  high  tide  to-day?" 

He  asked  the  question  wearily,  almost  que- 
rulously ;  for,  after  all,  he  was  seriously  dying. 


70       DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"I  will  look  in  the  newspaper,"  said  the 
lawyer;  and  having  looked,  he  answered, 
"  At  three  minutes  past  four." 

"When  will  the  tide  turn?"  asked  the 
dying  poet. 

"  It  keeps  at  full  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  and  then  begins  to  ebb." 

"  That  gives  us  from  now  about  four  hours,  " 
said  the  poet.  "  Four  hours.  At  the  turning 
of  the  tide.  Four  hours  ....  and 
then!" 

Wasteneys  lay  still  after  this,  with  his 
eyes  closed. 

Presently  he  roused  himself.  "  I  have  one 
more  farewell  to  make,"  he  said;  "will  you 
ask  them  to  bring  me  my  children?  .  .  .  ." 

"Your  children?"  The  lawyer,  good  friend 
as  he  was,  did  not  at  first  understand. 

"Yes!  My  children.  Please  have  them 
bring  me  my  children." 

Wasteneys's  servant,  happening  to  come 
into  the  room  at  the  moment,  beckoned  the 
lawyer,  and  explained  his  master's  meaning. 

"Yes!"  answered  the  lawyer,  soothingly, 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET         71 

after  this  informatory  pause,  "  they  shall  be 
brought  to  you." 

Then  presently  there  entered  two  men 
servants  carrying  two  high  piles  of  books. 
Placing  them  on  a  table,  they  left  the  room, 
returning  in  a  few  moments  with  two  more 
piles.  Once  more  they  went  out  and 
returned,  their  arms  still  laden  with  books. 

Meanwhile  a  new  life  seemed  suddenly  to 
have  animated  the  poet's  frame.  His  eyes 
shone,  and  he  struggled  to  raise  himself  in 
the  bed.  The  lawyer  packed  the  pillows  at 
his  back,  and  he  sat  up. 

"Put  them  at  the  end  of  the  bed,"  he 
said;  "let  me  see  them  all,  let  me  touch 
them " 

When  his  wish  had  been  carried  out,  and 
the  servants  departed,  he  leaned  over  the 
books  and  stroked  them  affectionately  again 
and  again. 

"  So  you  are  really  mine  —  really  my 
children,"  he  said. 

"Did  I  really  write  them?"  he  said, 
presently,  turning  to  his  friend.  ' '  So  many  ? ' ' 


72     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Yes!  dear  friend,  you  wrote  them  all," 
answered  the  lawyer,  too  solemnised  to  jest ; 
for  he  saw  that  it  was  close  on  the  turning 
of  the  tide. 

"  How  many  are  there? "  asked  Wasteneys, 
leaning  back,  already  weary  with  the 
excitement. 

"I  will  count  them "  said  his 

friend,  and  presently  announced  that  there 
were  fifty-three  volumes. 

"  Fifty-three ! ' '  exclaimed  Wasteneys ; 
"and  how  old  am  I?" 

"Thirty-nine,  next  month/'  said  the 
lawyer. 

"Next  month!"  said  the  poet. 

Then  he  turned  again  to  his  friend. 

"Read  me  a  page  here  and  there,"  he 
said;  "I  will  be  my  own  critic.  Even  a 
critic  at  the  point  of  death  may  be  expected 
to  tell  the  truth.  Read  to  me  that  I  may 
know  before  I  die  that  something  in  all  those 
fifty-three  volumes  may  perhaps  be  worth 
while." 

"What  shall  I  read?"  asked  the  lawyer. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET         73 

"Read  me  'What  of  the  Darkness?'  " 
And  the  lawyer  read: 

"What  of  the  Darkness?    Is  it  very  fair? 
Are  there  great   calms,    and   find  ye   silence 

there? 

,   Like  soft-shut  lilies,  all  your  faces  glow 
With    some    strange    peace    our    faces   never 

know, 

With  some  great  faith  our  faces  never  dare, 
Dwells  it  in  Darkness?    Do  ye  find  it  there? 

"Is  it  a  Bosom  where  tired  heads  may  lie? 
Is  it  a  Mouth  to  kiss  our  weeping  dry? 
Is  it  a  Hand  to  still  the  pulse's  leap? 
Is  it  a  Voice  that  holds  the  runes  of  sleep? 
Day  shows  us  not  such  comfort  anywhere  — 
Dwells  it  in  Darkness  ?   Do  ye  find  it  there  ? 

"Out  of  the  day's  deceiving  light  we  call  — 
Day  that   shows  man  so  great,   and  God  so 

small, 
That    hides     the    stars,    and    magnifies    the 

grass  — 

O  is  the  Darkness  too  a  lying  glass? 
Or,  undistracted,  do  ye  find  truth  there? 
What  of  the  Darkness?,   Is  it  very  fair?" 

"Are  you  quite  sure  that  I  wrote  that?" 
asked  the  poet.  "Look  carefully.  Is  it 
really  my  book?" 


74     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"It  is,  indeed.  Printed  when  you  were 
twenty." 

"I  am  so  happy,"  said  the  poet  —  "so 
happy  to  think  I  wrote  that.  Time  itself 
cannot  rob  me  of  that." 

Very  soon  it  was  plainly  to  be  seen  that 
the  poet  was  on  the  very  border-line  of  life 
and  death. 

"Is  there  no  one  you  would  care  to  see?" 
asked  the  lawyer,  gently. 

"No,  no  one,"  answered  the  poet. 

"  Not  your  physician? "  asked  the  lawyer. 

"O  no,  indeed,"  answered  the  poet,  with 
a  flash  of  his  odd  smile.  "  Give  him  my  love. 
But  tell  him  that  I  want  to  die  —  not  to  be 
killed." 

"What  time  is  it?"  he  asked,  presently. 

"Five  minutes  to  four." 

The  poet  lay  silent  a  while,  and  then  he 
turned  to  his  lawyer  with  the  look  of  an  old 
friendship.  Indeed,  his  friendship  for  his 
lawyer,  was,  odd  as  it  may  sound,  one  of  the 
realities  of  his  unearthly  life. 

"  Friend,"  he  said,  "  I  am  afraid  it  is  almost 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  POET         75 

time  for  us  also  to  say  good-bye.  God  bless 
you  —  for  all.  Look  after  —  them,  won't 
you?"  and  he  waved  his  hand  toward  his 
wife's  quarters.  "Good-bye " 

"But,"  said  his  friend,  "will  you  have  no 
one  with  you?" 

"  Don't  you  hear  the  turning  of  the  tide? " 
answered  the  poet. 

"No  one?"  reiterated  the  lawyer,  ago- 
nised out  of  his  professional  demeanour. 

"No  one!"  answered  Wasteneys,  rising 
commandingly  in  his  bed,  and  sweeping  his 
hand  across  the  volumes  at  its  foot  —  "No 
one  —  but  my  children! " 


The  Butterfly  of  Dreams 


THE  BUTTERFLY    OF  DREAMS 

IT  WAS  said  that  a  tragic  disappointment 
accounted  for  young  Lord  Laleham's 
curious  passion  for  butterflies.  Actually 
there  was  no  such  explanation,  or,  of  course, 
any  need  of  it;  but  pursuits  out  of  the  com- 
mon naturally  demand  uncommon  excuses  — 
for  the  common  mind ;  and  it  was  evident  to 
the  watchful  critics  of  Lord  Laleham's  career 
that  nothing  short  of  a  great  sorrow  could 
have  driven  him  to  so  trivial  a  means  of  al- 
leviation. According  to  others,  this  dainty 
passion  —  which  might  well  have  subjected 
him  to  the  contempt  of  his  fellows,  had  he  not 
been  able  to  give  a  somewhat  formidable 
physical  account  of  himself  —  was  to  be  put 
down  as  due  to  one  of  those  strains  of  freak- 
ishness  liable  to  break  out  in  old  families. 
No  one,  of  course,  dreamed  that  Laleham 
could  care  for  butterfly-hunting  for  its  own 

79 


8o      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

sake,  except  those  entomologists  for  whom 
his  collection  was  famous  throughout  the 
world,  authoritative,  classical;  for  Lord 
Laleham  was  one  of  the  handsomest  and 
richest  of  young  English  peers,  and  as  diffi- 
cult for  match-making  mothers  to  catch  as 
one  of  his  own  butterflies  —  surely  the  last 
man  in  the  world  to  seek  the  humble  laurel 
of  the  lepidopterist. 

And,  indeed,  it  was  true  that  butterflies 
were  something  more  to  Laleham  than  ento- 
mology. They  were  rather  a  poetic  than  a 
scientific  passion.  There  was  a  strong  vein  of 
the  mystic  and  poetic  in  his  nature  to  which 
in  some  way,  mysterious  even  to  himself, 
these  strange  little  painted  things  had  from 
childhood  appealed.  As  the  smallest  boy,  he 
had  proved  himself  a  passionist  of  the  soli- 
tudes of  nature,  by  lone  woodland  truancies 
and  long  tramps  through  that  gipsy  wilder- 
ness, which  England,  with  all  its  lawns  and 
market-gardens  and  nurseries,  has  so  remark- 
ably preserved.  And,  from  the  first  moment 
that  he  found  himself  alone,  hushed  and 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     81 

watching  and  listening,  and  a  little  afraid, 
in  the  belt  of  mighty  beeches  that  was  perhaps 
the  chief  honour  of  his  pedigree,  there  had 
seemed  a  spell,  an  enchantment,  over  these 
lonely  leaves,  these  gnome-like  shapes  of 
mottled  bole,  and  these  twisted  roots  that 
seemed  to  have  become  so  through  some  mys- 
terious agonies  of  ancient  torture  —  though 
indeed,  to  most  folk  there  was  nothing  there 
but  leaves  and  the  famous  Laleham  covers. 
He  had  never  forgotten  the  day  when  that 
spell  of  exquisite  silence  and  dappled  sun- 
shine —  the  whole  woodland  with  its  finger 
on  its  lip  —  had  suddenly  become  embodied 
in  a  tiny  shape  of  coloured  velvet  wings  that 
came  floating  zig-zag  up  the  dingle,  swift  as 
light,  aery  as  a  perfume,  soft  and  silent  as  the 
figured  carpet  in  some  Eastern  palace.  With 
what  awe  he  watched  it,  as  at  length  it  settled 
near  him  on  a  sunlit  weed,  with  what  a  luxury 
of  observation  his  eyes  noted  its  sumptuous 
unearthly  markings,  and  what  an  image  of 
wonder  and  exquisite  mystery  it  there  and 
forever  left  upon  his  mind.  In  a  moment  it 


82      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

was  up  and  away  upon  its  uncharted  travel 
through  the  wood.  Instinctively,  he  ran 
in  pursuit.  But  it  was  too  late.  He  had 
lost  his  first  butterfly. 

For  Laleham,  from  that  moment,  all  the 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  the  mystery  and 
the  elusiveness  of  it,  were  symbolised  in  a 
butterfly.  From  that  moment  it  seemed  to 
him  that  the  success  of  life  was  —  the  catch- 
ing of  a  certain  butterfly. 

He  was  now  thirty  years  old  and  had  caught 
many  butterflies,  caught  them  in  every  part 
of  the  world,  and  the  adventures  he  had  met 
with  in  the  apparently  insignificant  chase, 
were  they  to  be  written,  would  fully  justify 
the  defence  he  sometimes  made  of  what  the 
world  called  his  whimsical  hobby.  "You 
must  not  look  upon  my  butterflies  as  trivial, ' ' 
he  would  say.  "  The  study  of  much  smaller 
things  has  made  modern  science ;  and  a  but- 
terfly may  well  lead  you  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth  —  and  even  lose  you  among  the  stars. 
You  never  know  where  it  may  take  you. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     83 

There  is  no  hunting  more  full  of  exciting 
possibilities.  If  you  dare  follow  a  butterfly, 
you  dare  go  anywhere;  and  no  quarry  will 
lead  you  into  stranger  places,  or  into  such 
beautiful  unexpected  adventures. " 

At  thirty  he  was  still  unmarried.  Life 
was  still  for  him  a  lonely  woodland,  through 
which  he  chased  the  one  butterfly  he  had 
never  been  able  to  capture.  The  butterflies 
of  the  world  were  in  his  marvellously  arranged 
cabinets,  —  rainbow  upon  rainbow  of  classi- 
fied wings  —  but  one  butterfly  was  not  there. 
The  butterfly,  indeed,  might  possibly  have 
been  had  by  exchange  with  other  collectors, 
though  it  was  one  so  rare,  and  so  beyond 
equivalent  in  any  form,  that  the  man  who 
had  been  fortunate  enough  to  come  into 
possession  of  it  seldom  cared  to  part  with  it. 

Besides,  though  occasionally  Laleham  had 
resorted  to  this  means  of  supplying  a  missing 
species,  it  was  a  course  he  seldom  took. 
Nearly  every  butterfly  in  his  vast  flower- 
garden  of  shimmering  wings  had  been  caught 
by  his  own  hand.  There  was  no  country  in 


84     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

the  world  he  had  not  visited  in  his  determined 
dream  of  being,  one  might  say,  the  Balzac  of 
the  butterfly ;  and  it  was  only  the  commoner 
sort  of  butterfly  he  had  occasionally  obtained 
by  exchange.  The  butterfly  that  was  missing 
from  his  collection  he  made  it  a  point  of  hon- 
our, and  indeed,  in  course  of  time,  a  sort  of 
superstition,  to  capture  for  himself.  To  the 
ordinary  and  non-entomological  observer, 
untouched  by  Laleham's  mystic  passion, 
there  would  seem  little  enough  to  account 
for  his  preoccupation  in  the  quite  insignifi- 
cant object  of  it,  a  tiny  blue  butterfly,  to  or- 
dinary eyes  not  differing  from  any  other  tiny 
blue  butterfly,  and  in  fact  only  to  be  known 
for  what  it  was  by  a  mystic  marking  almost 
imperceptible,  hidden  beneath  its  wings. 
Not  even  the  collector  himself  could  be  sure 
of  what  he  was  pursuing,  on  account  of  the 
butterfly's  resemblance  to  another  species 
comparatively  common,  exactly  like,  except 
for  that  hidden  signature,  that  distinguishing 
hall-mark.  If  one  were  to  depreciate  the  value 
of  this  illustrious  insect,  and  say  that  its 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     85 

sole  distinction  was  that  of  rarity,  the  collec- 
tor would  only  smile,  and  could  afford  to, 
perhaps.  Rarity!  only  rarity!  Was  not  that 
enough!  Had  not  mankind  agreed,  through- 
out recorded  history,  that  rarity  alone,  unac- 
companied by  any  other  precious  character- 
istic, is  of  all  qualifications,  the  qualification 
of  immortality;  and  is  not  rarity  of  all  values 
the  ideal  value,  a  value  not  measurable  by  the 
eye,  or  any  method  of  external  judgment, 
a  value  of  the  soul.  Besides,  what  are  the 
highest  prizes  in  any  chase  or  contest  what- 
soever —  a  simple  wreath  of  laurel,  the  ant- 
lers of  a  deer,  objects  in  themselves  only  sym- 
bolically valuable.  Why,  therefore,  should 
not  the  ambitious  pursuing  spirit  of  man 
stake  its  fortunes  on  a  butterfly  —  for  what 
could  be  more  typical  of  its  own  wandering 
course  and  ever  changing  goal. 

The  Laleham  butterfly,  as  it  is  now  called, 
and  as  not  seldom  happens  with  other  rare 
things  in  nature  —  this  being,  I  may  add,  not 
the  least  of  nature's  mysterious  whims  —  had 


86     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

never  been  found  except  in  one  remote  corner 
of  England,  a  fenny  country  producing  a 
hardly  less  rare  variety  of  flowering  rush  on 
which  its  caterpillar  alone  could  feed.  It  was 
a  country  of  boundless  marshy  levels,  and 
peaty  solitudes,  a  country  of  herons,  and 
long  dark-eyed  pools,  which,  flashing  every 
few  yards  under  the  boundless  sky,  filled  the 
loneliness  with  magic  mirrors.  For  the  gay 
it  was  a  dreary  land,  but  for  those  who  have 
found  "nought  so  sweet  as  melancholy"  it 
was  melancholy  only  as  great  music  is  mel- 
ancholy, and  its  loneliness  was  that  of  some 
splendid  raven-haired  widow  with  her  tragic 
gaze  upon  the  sky.  It  was  a  thinly  popu- 
lated region,  with  here  and  there  an  inn  and 
a  few  cottages  taking  shelter  under  the  wing 
of  some  mouldering  grange.  It  was,  in  short, 
one  of  the  sad  beautiful  ends  of  the  earth. 
Here  it  was,  and  here  alone,  that  Laleham's 
butterfly  had  chosen  to  dwell,  to  secret  it- 
self, indeed,  as  though  in  a  place  so  remote  it 
might  hope  to  preserve  its  fragile  aristo- 
cratic race  from  extinction.  Yet,  though  it 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     87 

was  known  to  inhabit  this  solitude,  not  a 
dozen  living  people  had  ever  seen  it,  and 
only  two  had  caught  it  for  many  years ;  for 
there  again  it  illustrated  another  mystery  of 
nature,  the  persistent  survival  of  a  rare  type, 
in  such  unchangeably  small  numbers  as  al- 
most to  risk  extinction,  as  it  were,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  aristocracy.  For  at  least  two  hun- 
dred years,  as  long  as  it  had  been  known  at  all, 
the  Laleham  butterfly  had  existed  apparently 
in  the  same  small  family,  only  propagating 
itself  sufficiently  to  keep  its  race  and  name 
upon  the  earth,  and  no  more.  It  had  not 
become  rare  by  process  of  extinction,  but 
because  nature  apparently  had  made  few 
of  it  from  the  beginning.  Happily  this  aris- 
tocratic law  of  nature  is  not  only  applied  to 
butterflies.  In  fact  one  might  justly  say  the 
same  of  the  family  that  had  dwelt  in  an  old 
embattled  house  which  had  stood  here  sinking 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  solitude  since  the 
days  of  Richard  II.  Noctorum,  the  house 
was  called,  as  was  the  cluster  of  cottages 
around  it  —  a  name  appropriately  dark  and 


88     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

mysterious,  like  the  cry  of  owls  at  night 
across  the  fen. 

In  this  old  house  of  Noctorum,  which  had 
been  built  by  his  ancestors  and  inhabited 
by  Fantons  ever  since,  lived  studious  old  Sir 
Gilbert  Fanton,  Baronet,  alone  most  of  the 
year  round  with  his  gout  and  his  books,  and 
one  beautiful  daughter  hardly  yet  a  woman. 
A  young  wife,  dead  now  many  years,  had  left 
him  with  two  sons,  both  soldiers,  and  there- 
fore seldom  at  home,  and  one  great-eyed 
little  girl,  who,  far  frorri  finding  the  solitude 
of  her  life  irksome,  had  taken  kindly  to  it, 
and  had  more  and  more,  year  by  year,  seemed 
to  embody  the  solemn  beauty  of  her  melan- 
choly surroundings.  Laleham  had  been  a 
friend  of  young  Christopher  Fanton's  at  Ox- 
ford, and  had,  several  years  before,  come 
down  to  Noctorum  with  the  young  soldier  in 
quest  of  the  butterfly  which  was  the  legen- 
dary glory  of  the  district. 

Though  Sir  Gilbert  was  a  much  older  man 
than  himself,  he  had  found  in  him  a  scholar 
with  mystic  tendencies  similar  to  his  own, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     89 

and,  when  the  sons  had  gone  to  the  wars, 
Laleham  continued  to  come  down  to  visit 
the  father,  and  incidentally  to  pursue  the 
quest  of  his  butterfly.  Then  he  had  taken  a 
trip  about  the  world,  visiting  the  ^tropical 
haunts  of  his  hobby,  which  had  lasted  so 
long  that  when  again  he  returned  to  England 
it  had  been  three  years  since  he  had  visited 
his  old  friend.  Besides,  he  had  once  more 
returned  from  his  pilgrimage  without  that 
mystic  butterfly  which  continued  still  to 
evade  his  persevering  pursuit.  In  every  part 
of  the  world  he  had  sought  it,  but  still,  so 
far  as  he  could  hear,  the  one  place  in  which  it 
might  be  found  was  the  marshes  of  Noctorum. 
So,  thinking  less  of  his  quest  than  of  his 
friend,  he  determined  to  run  down  and  see 
what  progress  Sir  Gilbert  was  making  with  his 
great  book  on  the  folk-lore  of  the  fens  —  for 
fairies  and  hobgoblins  were  Sir  Gilbert's  par- 
ticular substitute  for  idleness.  He  found  Sir 
Gilbert  boyishly  happy  over  his  recent  discov- 
ery of  an  indigenous  and  heretofore  unrecorded 
variant  of  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psyche. 


QO     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

1  'Think  of  it!"  exclaimed  the  old  scholar, 
"here  in  this  land  of  clods  and  pitchforks, 
uncouth  in  form  indeed,  but  still  the  old 
dainty  fancy,  the  old  Greek  fairy  tale  in 
homespun.  Is  n't  it  strange  how  these  frail 
shapes  of  story,  frail  as  moonbeams,  are 
still  hardy  enough  to  make  their  way 
from  land  to  land,  and  take  on  the  dis- 
guises of  the  peoples,  rough  or  gentle,  among 
which,  like  a  thistledown,  they  happen  to 
settle." 

"Yes!"  answered  Laleham  smiling,  "they 
are  like  the  butterflies  of  the  imagination  — 
frail  but  indestructible." 

Sir  Gilbert  laughed  at  this  reminder  that 
there  were  other  hobbies  than  his  own. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "I  am  afraid  I  am 
selfishly  riding  my  own  hobby;  and  in  my 
Psyche,  forgetting  yours.  Tell  me  about 
your  Psyche." 

Laleham  shook  his  head,  and  proceeded  to 
tell  of  his  varying  fortune  in  foreign  lands, 
and  how  he  had  come  back  with  all  the  butter- 
flies of  the  world,  except  the  one  butterfly. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     91 

Sir  Gilbert  gave  him  the  sympathy  of  a 
fellow  collector. 

"But  surely,"  he  said,  "you  have  n't 
given  up  the  chase  —  at  your  age." 

"Almost,"  answered  Laleham,  "I  am  too 
old.  The  wildest  enthusiasm  —  for  butter- 
flies —  can  hardly  outlive  thirty.  I  think  I 
shall  take  up  some  serious  study  —  like 
yours. 

Both  the  friends  laughed,  and  Sir  Gilbert 
said: 

"But,  seriously,  I  have  heard  of  your 
butterfly  having  been  seen  within  a  mile  or 
two  from  here  no  longer  than  a  week  ago. 
There  were  two  fellows  staying  at  the  inn 
last  month  who  -called  to  see  me,  enthusiasts 
like  yourself,  and  they  were  positive  that 
they  had  seen  it  over  by  the  Black  Ditches  — 
of  course,  you  know  the  place.  But  they 
missed  it,  all  the  same." 

"The  worst  of  the  beast  is,"  said  Laleham, 
"that  you  cannot  be  sure,  so  to  say,  that  it 
is  itself  till  you  have  it  in  your  hand.  The 
other  brute  is  so  like  it." 


92      DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Yet  you  were  once  sure  enough,  dear 
friend,"  answered  Sir  Gilbert. 

"True,"  said  Laleham  sadly,  "but  who 
knows,  I  may  have  been  wrong." 

"Anyhow,  here  you  are,"  said  Sir  Gilbert, 
"in  the  best  season  of  the  year.  You  never 
had  a  better  opportunity.  If  you  don't 
catch  your  butterfly  this  time,  you  never 
will.  This  is  your  home,  you  know,  and  you 
know  too  that  I  shall  treat  you  with  no 
ceremony.  You  can  go  about  your  butter- 
flies, and  I  shall  go  about  my  fairies,  and  if 
I  seem  to  neglect  you,  Mariana  will  make  up 
forme." 

Mariana  entered  at  that  moment,  and  stood 
by  her  father.  When  Laleham  had  last  seen 
her  hers  were  still  those  reluctant  feet  of 
maidenhood  of  which  the  great  poet  has 
sung.  Now  she  was  a  woman ;  a  very  young 
woman,  it  is  true,  but  a  woman.  That  grave 
beauty  of  the  melancholy  fens,  of  which  I 
have  spoken  as  having  "  passed  into  her  face," 
was  there  now  in  a  still  more  decided  presence. 
Her  hair  was  black  as  English  hair  seldom  is, 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     93 

her  skin  was  an  exquisite  olive,  and  her  eyes 
were  like  those  strange  pools  which  flashed 
darkly  in  the  evening  light  outside  the 
library  window.  Her  black  eyelashes  were 
so  thick  that  you  could  not  help  thinking  of 
them  as  rushes  guarding  the  secrecies  of  the 
strange  mirrors  inside.  And,  not  externally 
only  did  she  seem  the  very  embodiment  of 
her  surroundings,  but  her  spirit  seemed  also 
to  have  absorbed  their  passionate  silence. 
Perhaps  no  landscape  says  so  little,  and  is 
yet  so  richly  eloquent,  as  the  elegiac  land- 
scape of  a  fen  country.  How  beyond  all 
speech  is  its  silence,  how  beyond  the  shallow 
spectacular  changes  of  showier  natural  effects 
is  its  solemn  art  of  imperturbability.  Mari- 
ana was  strangely  silent  —  but  indeed  not 
speechless.  The  lesson  of  the  nature  about 
her  seemed  to  have  entered  into  her  whole 
being,  the  lesson  that  such  silence  must 
only  be  broken  by  very  significant,  very 
beautiful,  words  —  as  though  silence  were  an 
exquisite  unsullied  sky  only  now  and  again 
to  be  interrupted  by  stars. 


94     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Laleham  had  observed  her  but  little  on 
his  former  visits,  for,  as  I  have  said,  she  was 
hardly  more  than  a  child;  and,  besides,  was 
it  the  cloud  of  his  butterflies,  or  was  it  some 
other  unforgotten  face  that  veiled  for  him 
the  faces  of  women,  so  that  all  these  years  he 
had  passed  unscathed  through  all  the  bat- 
talions of  beautiful  faces.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  it  was  on  the  occasion  of  this  visit  that 
he  saw  the  beauty  of  Mariana  Fanton  for  the 
first  time,  and,  as  the  days  went  by,  he  found 
that  beauty  making  an  even  stronger  appeal 
to  his  imagination,  which,  as  always  is  the 
case  with  such  natures  as  his,  lay  very  near 
to  his  heart.  As  Sir  Gilbert  had  'threatened,' 
it  was  on  Mariana  that  he  had  to  rely  for 
companionship  on  those  days  when  he  was 
not  out  alone  with  his  net  across  the  fens; 
for  Sir  Gilbert  was  so  hard  at  work  upon  a 
paper  for  the  Folk-Lore  Society  on  his  recent 
discovery  that  he  could  only  spare  his  even- 
ings for  his  friend.  As  his  visit  lengthened 
into  weeks,  the  days  he  spent  alone  grew 
less,  and  the  days  he  spent  with  Mariana 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     95 

grew  more,  and  the  butterfly  remained  un- 
caught.  Sometimes  Mariana  would  go  hunt- 
ing it  with  him,  but  oftener  they  would  go 
out  on  long  aimless  walks  together,  saying 
little,  but  always  coming  nearer  and  nearer 
through  that  language  of  expressive  silence 
which  both  had  been  born  to  speak  and 
understand.  When  Mariana  did  speak,  what 
a  heavenly  animation  swept  its  sunlight 
over  her  face;  but  her  silence,  as  someone 
has  said  of  her,  was  like  a  sky  full  of  stars. 

Laleham's  stay  at  Noctorum  was  nearing 
its  end.  So  far  as  his  old  friend  was  con- 
cerned, he  could,  of  course,  have  stayed  there 
forever. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  said  Sir  Gilbert,  "  I  would 
not  leave  this  place  till  I  had  caught  it." 

"The  continued  presence  of  such  a  deter- 
mined huntsman  might  frighten  it  from  the 
district  altogether,"  answered  Laleham.  "I 
will  use  stratagem,  let  it  rest  in  security 
a  while,  and  come  again." 

It  was  the  hour  after  dinner  when  the 
friends  usually  smoked  their  pipes  together. 


96     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

and  Sir  Gilbert  was  genuinely  sorry  to  lose 
his  friend,  but  the  proofs  of  his  pamphlet  on 
Cupid  and  Psyche  had  just  arrived  by  the 
evening  post,  and  his  fingers  were  itching  to 
open  them.  Besides,  Laleham  was  to  be  with 
them  yet  a  day  or  two  longer.  Presently  Sir 
Gilbert's  proofs  became  irresistible,  and  turn- 
ing to  his  friend  he  said : 

"Do  you  mind,  old  man,  but  I  am  just 
dying  to  look  at  these  silly  proofs  of  mine  — 
pride  of  authorship,  you  know  —  suppose  you 
look  up  Mariana  —  she  is  out  there,  I  see, 
on  the  veranda  —  and  talk  astronomy  to  her 
for  a  few  minutes.  Then  we  can  have  a 
talk " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Laleham,  laugh- 
ing as  he  opened  the  door  on  to  the  starlit 
veranda,  and  left  the  old  man  to  himself. 

As  Laleham  took  a  chair  by  Mariana's  side, 
her  recognition  of  his  presence  would  have 
been  imperceptible  to  anyone  who  did  not 
understand  her  language  of  silence.  Her 
eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  stars,  and  he  sat 
down  near  her  without  attempting  even  to 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     97 

join  her  reverie.  He  was  well  content  to 
look  at  her  and  know  that  she  was  near. 
Presently,  without  turning  her  head,  with 
her  eyes  still  among  the  stars,  she  said  in  her 
curious  deep  sudden  voice : 

"  You  have  not  found  your  butterfly?  " 

"No." 

" Do  you  still  hope  to  find  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  you  ever  seen  it?" 

"Yes." 

"How  of  ten?" 

"Twice." 

"Twice!"  she  exclaimed,  at  length  turning 
and  looking  at  him.  "Twice!  and  you  lost 
it  both  times " 

Before  he  could  answer,  she  raised  her  hand 
to  the  stars.  "Look!"  she  said.  "I  some- 
times think  that  the  soul  is  like  a  butterfly, 
and  that  it  goes  from  star  to  star,  as  a  butter- 
fly goes  from  flower  to  flower  .  .  .  ." 
then,  with  another  of  her  sudden,  and  often 
disconcerting,  transitions,  she  turned  again 
to  Laleham; 


98     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  those  times  you 
saw  your  butterfly?"  she  said. 

"  It  is  an  odd  story,"  Laleham  began,  "  and 
I  am  afraid  you  may  think  me  superstitious. 
But  you  must  n't  think  that  it  accounts  for  my 
butterflies,  for  I  have  loved  them,  for  some  un- 
explained reason,  since  I  was  a  boy " 

"Perhaps,"  he  added,  "some  tastes  are 
prophetic;"  and  then  he  went  on.  "The 
first  time  I  saw  it  was  one  morning  about 
eight  years  ago.  I  was  hunting  it  among 
country  similar  to  this,  and  suddenly  it  rose 
out  of  a  bed  of  reeds.  It  was  so  near  me 
that  I  made  sure  it  was  mine,  so  sure  that  I 
was  in  no  haste  to  strike  with  my  net,  but 
watched  it  and  studied  it  a  while,  was  quite 
carelessly  certain  of  it  in  fact  ....  and 
then,  just  as  I  held  my  net  ready  to  capture 
it,  away  it  went  on  the  wind,  not  quite  out  of 
sight,  but  always  keeping  a  coquettish  dis- 
tance, near  enough  to  lure  me  on,  far  enough 
away  to  escape " 

"  It  rather  served  you  right  for  being  so 
sure,  did  n't  it?"  said  Mariana. 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OF  DREAMS     99 

"You  see  I  was  only  a  young  butterfly- 
hunter  then,"  said  Laleham,  "I  have  learnt 
wisdom  since." 

"Go  on,"  prompted  Mariana. 

"Well,  it  led  me  on  in  this  way  for  quite 
two  hours,  till  we  came  to  the  end  of  the  wild 
country,  and  suddenly  dropped  down  into 
a  small  village.  You  will  laugh  at  what 
follows,  though  it  had  its  sad  side  for  me. 
We  had  come  on  the  village  at  the  end  where 
there  stands  the  parish  church " 

"I  know  the  village,"  said  Mariana,  ab- 
sently, as  if  she  were  saying  nothing.  Lale- 
ham shot  a  troubled  look  at  her,  but 
continued. 

"The  churchyard  was  filled  with  a  throng 
of  people  gaily  dressed  as  for  a  wedding. 
What  should  my  butterfly  do  but  dash 
amongst  them,  and  I  after  it,  for  it  was  too 
precious  to  lose.  Soaring  over  the  heads 
of  the  crowd,  it  dashed  for  shelter  into  the 
church,  and  I  again  after  it,  forgetting  all 
but  my  butterfly  —  and  there  were  two 
young  people  kneeling  at  the  altar.  My 


ioo    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

abrupt  entrance  naturally  made  a  sensation 
which  brought  me  to  myself,  and,  dropping 
on  my  knees  in  a  pew,  I  watched  my  butter- 
fly flicker  up  the  aisle  till  it  settled  itself  on 
the  clasped  hands  of  the  kneeling  bride.  In 
surprise,  she  turned  her  head,  and " 

"Well?" 

"I  saw  her  face." 

"And  the  butterfly?" 

"Escaped  by  the  belfry." 

"Quite  a  fairy  tale,"  said  Mariana,  after  a 
pause.  "  Now  tell  me  about  the  second  time 
you  saw  your  butterfly." 

"  I  hardly  care  to  speak  of  it,  Mariana  — 
unless  you  care  very  much  to  hear." 

"Would  you  rather  not  speak  of  it?" 

"  I  would  speak  of  it  to  no  one  but  you." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  speak? " 

"  I  do.     Do  you  wish  me  to  speak? " 

"Yes,  speak  of  it  —  to  me,"  said  Mariana 
gently. 

"  It  is  a  very  short  story,  Mariana  —  al- 
most the  same,  excepting  the  end ;  for,  three 
years  afterwards,  once  more  my  butterfly 


THE  BUTTERFLY  OP  DREAMS   101 

rose  out  of  the  reeds  in  almost  exactly  the 
same  spot,  and  once  more  it  coquetted  with 
me  for  miles,  and  once  more  it  dashed  into 
that  little  churchyard  ....  but  this 
time  it  did  not  vanish  into  the  church,  but 
went  from  grave  to  grave,  as  you  say  the  soul 
perhaps  wanders  from  star  to  star,  and  pres- 
ently it  stopped  at  one  of  the  graves.  I 
thought  that  now  it  was  surely  mine,  and 
raised  my  net  to  strike,  but,  as  I  did  so,  I 
read  a  name  upon  a  stone " 

In  the  darkness  Mariana  reached  out  her 
hand  and  took  Laleham's,  and,  after  a 
silence,  she  said : 

"I  know  the  grave,"  and,  after  another 
silence,  she  said: 

"  I  have  heard  that  she  was  very  beautiful." 

Then  the  two  sat  on,  saying  no  more  in  the 
starlight,  and  all  the  while,  though  neither 
knew  of  it  till  they  returned  to  the  library 
lamps,  a  little  blue  butterfly  had  been  hiding 
in  Mariana's  hair. 


My  Castle  in  Spain 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

PERHAPS  the  dream  which  a  man  gives 
up  hardest  is  that  of  his  ideal  home,  the 
dream-house  builded  just  as  he  and  Love 
would  build  it  to  dwell  in  together  —  had  he 
and  Love  the  money!  —  the  dream-house 
which  in  every  sensitive  particular  would  be 
the  appropriate  habitation  of  his  spirit;  in 
short  his  castle -in  Spain.  Castles  in  Spain 
are  not  necessarily  expensive.  A  cottage  in 
Spain  is  just  as  good  as  a  castle  if  you  think 
so ;  and  if  you  know  the  secret  you  can  make 
a  castle  in  Spain  out  of  one-room-and-bath 
in  a  New  York  apartment  house.  I  myself 
have  never  done  it.  I  have  never  been  happy 
enough  for  that. 

No,  I  am  afraid  I  should  need  money  for 
my  castle -in  -Spain.  It  would  cost  a  fortune 
to  build  and  many  fortunes  to  run.  For 
it  would  be  a  real  castle,  and  real  castles  have 
always  been  expensive,  even  in  feudal  days 
105 


io6    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

when  labour  was  somewhat  cheaper  than  it 
is  now.  I  want  no  cloud-castle  built  of  moon- 
beams and  rainbows  for  me  and  Love  to 
dwell  in,  but  a  real  earth-castle  like  that  of 
an  old  French  troubadour,  with  walls  34 
feet  thick  —  to  keep  Love  safe  from  other 
troubadours — a  donjon  190  feet  high  and  100 
feet  in  diameter,  and  other  massive  visible  par- 
ticulars. I  see  no  reason  why  it  should  not 
be  literally  situated  in  Spain  somewhere  at 
the  eastern  end  of  the  Pyrenees,  but  I  confess 
a  softness  for  Provence,  perhaps  on  account 
of  the  name.  A  situation  almost  equally 
Spanish  might  be  found  for  it  there  on  a 
toppling  crag,  somewhere  up  among  those 
strange  rock  villages  of  the  Maritime  Alps, 
filled  with  Moorish  ghosts,  in  the  nearness 
all  chasms  and  parched  shadows  and  the 
thirsty  sun,  in  the  distance  forests  of  cork-oak, 
silhouettes  of  eucalyptus  and  cypress.  Then 
olives  and  olives  and  the  Mediterranean 
Sea. 

I  choose  Provence   because  the  situation 
of    one's    castle -in -Spain    is    almost    more 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN  107 

important  than  the  castle  itself.  Environ- 
ment and  association  count  for  so  much  in 
the  matter  of  one's  dream-house.  You  may 
build  the  most  wonderful  castle-in -Spain,  but 
it  will  go  for  nothing,  seem  indeed  almost 
ridiculous,  a  parody,  if  you  build  it  in  some 
absurdly  wrong  place.  No  offence  to  Omaha, 
no  offence  to  Liverpool,  no  offence  to  Glasgow 
—  but  the  most  beautiful  castle-in-Spain 
would  be  wasted  in  any  one  of  those  animated 
capitals  of  industry.  As  the  setting  of  a 
jewel  is  hardly  less  important  than  the  jewel 
itself,  so  is  the  situation  of  one's  castle-in- 
Spain.  Stonehenge  or  Westminster  Abbey 
would  be  as  much  at  home  transported, 
numbered  stone  by  stone,  to  Herald  Square 
or  Michigan  Avenue  —  and  American  capital 
has  dreamed  some  such  dream  —  as  one's 
castle-in-Spain  built  in  any  one  of  those,  or 
such,  cities  as  I  have  mentioned. 
As  Keats  has  written: 

....       the  trees 
That  whisper  round  a  temple  become  soon 
Dear  as  the  temple's  self." 


io8    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

One  indeed  might  add  that  without  the  trees 
there  is  no  temple.  I  use  trees  here  as  sym- 
bolic of  environment,  but,  literally  speaking, 
it  is  impossible  to  exaggerate  the  importance 
of  trees  to  one's  cas tie-in-Spain.  Ancient 
trees  have  always  brought  distinction  to  their 
possessors.  It  is  the  old  park  and  the 
avenues  —  the  setting  —  that  give  many  an 
English  house  its  imposing  significance.  To 
cut  down  the  trees  would  be  like  shaving  the 
head  of  a  beautiful  woman. 

So  my  cas  tie -in -Spain  must  be  almost  lost 
amid  miles  of  mysterious  trees,  surrounded 
on  every  side  by  haunted  forests,  the  home 
of  wood-demons  and  the  wild  boar  and  the 
hunting  horn  and  the  bearded  robber  and 
the  maiden  in  distress;  and,  like  lanes  of 
silver  trumpets,  six  avenues  of  lime-trees  shall 
sweep  up  to  its  six  drawbridges  in  the  air. 

Of  course  my  castle  would  be  fortified 
against  a  world  which  would  naturally  wish 
to  rob  me  of  my  happiness.  It  would  be 
armed  to  the  teeth  with  quick-firing  guns 
of  the  latest  pattern,  and  these  would  be 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN  109 

manned  by  Japanese  gunners  of  the  quaintest 
size  and  shape.  I  may  say  —  in  parenthesis 
—  that  my  valets  would  not  be  Japanese,  but 
English.  Each  nation  has  its  own  special  gift 
to  give  us,  and  England  still  remains  famous 
for  its  valets.  I  should  need  volumes  in  folio 
adequately  to  describe  my  cas tie-in-Spain, 
and  at  least  three  of  them  would  be  needed 
to  tell  about  my  garden.  Ah,  what  a  garden 
there  would  be  in  my  cas  tie -in -Spain !  Per- 
haps, aside  from  other  fancies  which  I  should 
expect  to  indulge,  there  would  only  be  three 
on  which  I  would  really  set  my  heart: 

(1)  A  garden. 

(2)  A  library. 

(3)  A  private  chapel. 

I  should  not  hope,  nor  even  could  I  wish, 
to  be  original  in  my  garden;  for  man's  early 
desire  of  gardens  had  developed  into  a  learned 
convoluted  art  even  before  Solomon  wrote: 

"A  garden  inclosed  is  my  sister,  my  spouse;  a 
spring  shut  up,  a  fountain  sealed.  My  plants  are 
an  orchard  of  pomegranate,  with  pleasant  fruits; 


no    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

camphire,  with  spikenard,  spikenard  with  saf- 
fron; calamus  and  cinnamon,  with  all  trees  of 
frankincense;  myrrh  and  aloes,  with  all  the  chief 
spices:  A  fountain  of  gardens,  a  well  of  living 
waters,  and  streams  from  Lebanon.  Awake,  O 
north  wind ;  and  come,  thou  south ;  blow  upon  my 
garden,  that  the  spices  thereof  may  flow  out." 

My  garden  would,  first  of  all,  be  made  of 
dew ;  next  of  grass,  and  then  of  very  old  trees. 
Oak-trees,  poplars  and  beeches,  would  domi- 
nate my  garden ;  and,  as  for  the  other  trees, 
they  would  all  be  trees  of  veritably  living 
green  —  chestnuts  and  sycamores  and  willows. 
There  would  be  no  so-called  ever-greens  in  my 
garden,  trees  that  are  ever-green  because 
they  are  never-green — except  one:  the  only 
ever-green  tree  in  my  garden  would  be  the 
laurel.  Nothing  but  freshness  and  sap  and 
leafage  of  transparent  emerald  would  be 
trees  in  my  garden;  and  the  flowers  of  my 
garden  would  be  all  spring  and  summer: 
snowdrop,  crocus  and  daffodil;  violet,  rose 
and  honeysuckle.  There  would  be  no  au- 
tumn in  my  garden.  September  with  its 
paper  flowers,  chrysanthemum  and  dahlia, 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN          in 

and  all  its  knife-scented  funereal  blooms,  must 
not  walk  in  my  garden;  nor  shall  the  white 
feet  of  winter  tread  down  my  shining  lawns. 

Here  are  but,  so  to  say,  the  first  principles  of 
my  garden.  As  I  said,  it  would  take  volumes 
in  folio  adequately  to  tell  about  my  garden. 
But  this  much  further  I  may  say :  that  among 
the  many  divisions  and  sub-divisions  of  my 
garden,  there  would  be  three.  First  there 
would  be  my  star-garden.  In  this  would  be 
planted  flowers  that  bloom  only  under  the 
influence  of  the  stars;  flowers  that  open  at 
the  setting  of  the  moon,  and  close  with  the 
rising  of  the  morning  star.  For  these  flowers 
I  should  build  a  high  hanging  garden,  dizzily 
thrust  up  into  the  morning  sky,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  some  cloud -encircled  turret  of  my 
castle.  The,  flowers  in  this  garden  would  be 
whiter  than  snow  and  purer  than  my  first  love. 

Then  there  would  be  my  sun-garden .  In  this 
would  be  planted  the  warm-breathed,  earth- 
coloured  flowers,  the  yellow  and  scarlet  flowers, 
the  purple  and  saffron,  the  orange  and  crimson, 
all  the  hot  and  savage  flowers  of  the  sun. 


ii2    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

And,  again,  there  would  be  my  moon- 
garden,  a  subterranean  realm  of  pale  leaves 
and  ghostly  flowers,  a  dim  garden  of  ex- 
cavated terraces  descending  beneath  the 
dungeoned  foundations  of  my  castle,  irrigated 
from  its  green-mantled  moat,  and  fed 
through  slanting  shafts  of  hollowed  stone  — 
with  the  surreptitious  light  of  the  moon. 

I  should  allow  but  few  birds  in  my  garden. 
The  eagle  should  nest,  if  it  would,  on  some 
crag-like  corner  of  my  battlements,  and  the 
hawk  would  be  welcome  to  soar  and  swoop 
about  my  towers.  But  I  would  have  no 
nightingales  in  my  gardens,  those  birds  of 
make-believe  melodious  song,  those  postur- 
ing troubadours  of  the  air.  Only  the  simple 
sincere-throated  birds  should  sing  in  my  gar- 
den: the  thrush  and  the  black-bird  and  the 
robin;  the  starling  with  his  simple-minded 
whistle,  the  curlew  with  his  lost  broken- 
hearted call;  and,  at  twilight,  the  nightjar 
should  make  his  rugged  music  amid  the 
fern.  And  the  swallow  and  the  sparrow 
should  be  made  welcome  in  every  corner  of 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN          113 

my  dominions.  Generally,  I  should  encourage 
the  quiet  birds,  the  working,  building,  fight- 
ing birds,  the  birds  that  sing  no  more  than 
is  necessary,  or  natural. 

Everywhere  in  my  garden  shall  be  heard 
the  sound  of  running  water,  brooks  making 
their  way  unseen  under  secret  boughs,  and 
fountains  whispering  to  themselves  on  soli- 
tary lawns.  There  shall  be  such  a  rustle 
of  fresh  boughs  in  my  garden,  and  such  a 
ripple  of  streams,  that  you  shall  hardly  be 
able  to  tell  whether  the  leaves  or  the  brooks 
are  talking.  Also  there  shall  be  pools  hidden 
away. in  sanctuaries  of  the  garden,  pools 
sacred  with  water-lilies,  and  visited  only  of 
the  dragon-fly  and  the  lonely  bee. 

And  there  shall  be  other  ponds  in  my  gar- 
den, green  mossy  ponds  as  old  as  the  founda- 
tions of  my  castle,  fish-ponds,  the  ancestral 
home  of  monastic  carp,  strange  ancient  fish 
with  wise  ugly  faces,  and  gold  collars  round 
their  necks,  telling  how  some  old  king  caught 
them  and  threw  them  back  again  into  the 
pond  two  hundred  years  ago. 


ii4    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

My  library  would,  first  of  all,  be  vast  and 
multitudinous,  a  mysterious  collection  of 
books  without  beginning  and  without  end, 
a  romantic  infinitude  of  learning  and  fra- 
grance of  old  leather.  It  should  go  un- 
catalogued  as  the  wilderness.  No  human 
index  in  the  form  of  a  librarian  should  tame 
it  into  prim  classification.  It  should  -grow 
wild  as  the  virgin  forest,  and  unlooked-for 
adventures  of  the  soul  should  lie  in  ambush 
in  every  alcove  and  lonely  backwater  of  its 
haunted  shelves.  No  less  than  a  thousand 
rooms,  big  and  little,  winding  in  and  out, 
wandering  here  and  there,  would  be  needed 
to  contain  it.  There  are  many  book-lovers 
who  will  hardly  understand  this  Gargantuan 
passion  for  a  huge  library.  A  small  and 
sensitively  chosen  collection  of  books  is  their 
ideal.  For  me,  however,  a  few  books  are  no 
more  a  library  than  a  few  trees  are  a  forest, 
or  a  few  gallons  of  water  an  ocean.  A  library 
is  the  firmament  of  the  soul,  and  each  par- 
ticular star  gains  in  significance  from  being  a 
shining  unit  in  all  that  celestial  mystery. 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN  115 

While  I  should  aim  to  have  a  library 
coextensive  with  the  mental  history  of 
humanity,  from  the  clay  books  of  Babylon 
to  the  latest  French  novel,  the  learned  rooms 
I  should  oftenest  loiter  in  would  be  those 
rainbowed  with  the  gold  and  purple  of 
monkish  manuscripts,  the  rooms  mysterious 
with  grimoires  and  herbals  and  ancient 
treatises  on  the  occult  sciences,  the  rooms 
of  black-letter  and  the  types  of  Aldus  and 
those  other  first  printers  through  whose  magic 
Virgil  and  Catullus  and  Horace  rose  again 
from  the  grave.  And  I  would  have  my 
library  built  with  innumerable  secret  cham- 
bers and  sliding  panels  and  hidden  passages 
—  so  that,  whenever  it  was  my  desire,  I  could 
shut  myself  up  with  a  favourite  author  for  a 
week  at  a  time,  and  domestic  search  for  me 
be  quite  in  vain. 

My  chapel  will  need  few  words.  It  would 
be  merely  a  crucifix,  silence,  and  sunlight. 

I  said  that  there  would  be  no  librarian  in 
my  library,  similarly  there  would  be  no 
gardener  in  my  garden,  no  priest  in  my 


n6    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

chapel.  The  places  of  the  soul  need  no 
custodians.  The  worshippers  are  the  priests. 
Of  course,  I  should  expect  to  indulge  many 
an  idle  fancy  and  picturesque  whim  in  my 
castle-in-Spain  but  they  would  take  too  long 
to  tell  of.  Here  I  have  but  set  down  what  I 
conceive  to  be  the  reasonable  necessities  of  a 
dream.  I  have  said  nothing,  for  example, 
of  my  treasure-caves  beneath  the  castle, 
vaults  lit  by  enormous  carbuncles,  and  filled 
with  countless  coffers  of  bronze,  overflowing 
with  ancient  coins  and  precious  stones.  Nor 
have  I  spoken  of  my  paradise  of  butterflies, 
a  great  enclosed  garden  where  I  would  rear 
all  the  flower-winged  things  that,  like  illumi- 
nated letters  or  the  painted  souls  of  Japanese 
girls,  flit  and  flicker  through  the  sunlit  world. 
Nor  have  I  told  of  my  palace  of  serpents, 
where  python  and  cobra  and  all  the  ringed, 
gliding,  spangled  creatures  that  hiss  and 
sting  should  coil  about  tropical  trees,  and 
sleep  their  mysterious  sleep,  or  fall  down  like 
lightning  on  their  paralysed  prey.  Then, 
too,  I  might  tell  of  my  great  aquarium  where, 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN  117 

at  ease  in  my  luxurious  diving-bell,  I  would 
lie  all  day  watching  iridescent  fishes  all 
flounced  and  frilled  with  rainbows,  and  slow- 
moving  elemental  shapes  that  brood  eternally 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

A  hundred  other  such  fancies  I  shall  hope 
to  indulge  in  my  castle-in-Spain,  and  one 
more  I  must  not  forget,  for  no  castle  would 
be  complete  without  it  —  the  oubliette.  Into 
that  I  would  fling  all  my  sorrows  and  cares, 
and  all — unwelcome  visitors. 


Once-Upon-a-Time 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME 

TT  THEN  I  was  a  child  there  grew  at  the 
V  V  back  of  my  father's  house  a  deep  wood. 
It  may  not  have  been  so  vast  in  extent  as  it 
seemed  to  me ;  but  to  my  childish  imagination 
it  seemed  boundless,  endless,  dark  and  dense, 
and  infinitely  mysterious.  It  frightened  me, 
yet  the  fear  was  full  of  fascination.  Delicious 
was  the  thrill  with  which  sometimes  in  my 
lonely  rambles  I  would  venture  a  few  steps 
further  within  its  haunted  recesses  than  I  was 
wont  to  have  courage  for.  As  a  rule,  I 
restricted  my  explorations  to  its  sunlit  mar- 
gins, and,  so  soon  as  I  found  myself  among 
the  shadows,  would  fly  back  with  a  beating 
heart  into  the  sun. 

Never,  said  I  to  my  childish  heart,  had  the 
foot  of  man  penetrated  into  these  solitudes, 
on  which  lay  so  deep  a  spell  of  beautiful 
terror;  and,  so  far  back  as  I  can  remember, 

121 


122    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

this  wood  was  the  wonderland  which  I 
peopled  with  all  the  fancies  of  a  child's 
imagination.  All  the  heroes  and  heroines  of 
my  nursery-books  lived  somewhere  in  my 
wood.  It  was  the  scene  of  all  their  adven- 
tures, and,  like  a  stage,  was  capable  of  supply- 
ing an  ever-varying  mise-en-scene.  Some- 
times when  the  moon  was  up  I  thought  of 
it  as  peopled  by  fairies,  and  was  certain  that, 
if  only  the  hardihood  were  mine  to  dare  its 
fantastic  shadows,  I  should  surely  come  upon 
a  fairy  revel  in  full  swing.  When  in  the  day- 
time I  came  upon  rings  of  toadstools  with 
their  quaint  kobold  hats,  I  knew  that  they 
were  trolls  who  took  that  form  during  the 
day,  and  that  if  only  I  were  to  hide  behind 
a  tree  and  wait  for  night,  I  would  see  them 
suddenly,  at  the  first  touch  of  the  wand  of 
the  moon,  waken  up  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, and  once  more  set  their  merry  wheels 
a-spinning.  But  then  there  was  the  old 
witch  with  the  red  hood  to  fear,  and  the  ogre 
with  the  six  heads,  not  to  speak  of  the  wolves 
and  bears  and  various  other  wild  beasts 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  123 

that  roamed  the  woods  after  dark.  Not 
only  wolves  —  but  were-wolves  too ! 

As  I  grew  older,  I  grew  braver,  and,  per- 
suading myself  that  I  was  one  of  those  who 
bore  a  charmed  life,  I  found  courage  to  push 
my  explorations  further  and  further  into  the 
interior.  Thus  I  became  the  discoverer  of 
glades  and  dingles  exquisitely  lonely  with 
sunshine  and  haunted  flowers,  brooding 
solitudes  of  silent  fern,  hidden  springs  brim- 
ming up  through  the  hushed  moss,  and  little 
rivers  dripping  from  rock  to  rock  in  the 
stillness,  like  the  sound  of  falling  pearls. 

But  the  spell  over  the  wood  was  above  all 
the  spell  of  beauty,  the  spell  of  a  breathless 
enchantment,  a  spell  so  deep  that  the  wild- 
rose  growing  there  seemed  other  than  the 
wild-rose  that  grew  outside,  seemed  indeed 
enchanted,  and  the  very  blackberries  grow- 
ing on  the  great  cages  of  bramble,  humming 
with  bees  and  flickering  with  butterflies, 
seemed  a  magic  fruit  —  which  I  ate  with  a 
beautiful  fear  that  I  should  be  changed  into 
a  milk-white  fawn,  or  suddenly  find  myself 


i24    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

a  little  silver  fish  in  the  stream  yonder, 
with  the  Princess's  lost  wedding  ring  in  my 
inside. 

The  Princess!  Why  was  it  that  almost 
from  the  first  I  associated  the  wood  with  a 
beautiful  princess?  I  seemed  always  to  be 
expecting  her  at  some  turning  of  the  green 
pathways,  riding  upon  a  white  palfrey.  Of 
course,  she  would  be  riding  upon  a  white 
palfrey.  Or,  perhaps  I  should  come  upon  her 
suddenly  in  one  of  the  sunny  openings  of  the 
wood,  combing  her  black  hair  with  a  golden 
comb.  Or,  perhaps  she  was  dead,  and  this 
wild-rose  was  growing  up  out  of  her  pure 
wild  heart.  I  made  up  many  stories  about 
her,  but  this  was  the  story  that  took  strongest 
hold  of  my  fancy  —  that  she  had  lost  her 
way  in  the  wood,  and  at  last,  worn  out  with 
weariness  and  hunger,  had  lain  her  down 
and  died  —  just  here  where  this  rose-bush 
had  drawn  its  fragrance  from  her  last  sweet 
breath,  and  its  bloom  from  her  fading  cheek. 
I  used  to  sit  for  hours  by  the  rose-bush,  and 
picture  her  lying  beneath  with  her  eyes  closed 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  125 

and  a  gold  crown  upon  her  head,  and  at 
morning  when  the  roses  were  filled  with  dew, 
I  would  say  to  myself:  "O  the  beautiful 
Princess!  She  has  been  weeping  in  the 
night."  And  then  I  would  drink  her  tears 
out  of  the  little  pearl  cups  of  the  rose ;  but  I 
was  careful  never  to  mar  the  tender  petals, 
lest  the  Princess  should  feel  the  pain  of  it 
down  in  the  aromatic  mould. 

One  day,  however,  my  fancy  took  another 
turn,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  perchance  if 
I  were  to  pluck  one  of  her  roses,  the  Princess 
would  wake  from  her  enchanted  sleep,  and 
stand  before  me  with  her  strange  death- 
sleepy  eyes,  and  ask  me  the  way  back  to  her 
lost  castle.  So  one  morning  when  the  roses 
were  more  than  usually  drenched  with  the 
tears  of  the  Princess,  I  took  heart  and  plucked 
the  most  beautiful  rose,  saying  as  I  plucked 
it:  "Arise,  little  Princess  and  I  will  take 
you  back  to  your  castle."  Then  I  waited, 
and  presently  I  seemed  to  hear  a  sigh  of 
happiness,  like  a  spring  zephyr,  just  behind 
me.  I  turned,  and  there  stood  a  maiden 


126    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

with  black  hair,  and  eyes  the  colour  of  which 
I  could  not  rightly  discern,  because  they 
seemed  filled  with  moonlight. 

"Are  you  the  Princess?"  I  asked. 
"Yes!"  she  answered,  "I  am  the  Princess, 
and  my  name  is  Once-Upon-a-Time." 

"Beautiful  Princess,"  I  said,  "may  I  take 
you  back  to  your  castle?" 

"Are  you  sure  you  know  the  way,  little 
man?"  she  said,  "for  I  have  been  asleep  so 
long  that  I  have  quite  forgotten  it." 

"O  yes!"  I  answered  eagerly,  though 
really  I  was  far  from  sure  —  but  I  knew  that 
I  had  friends  in  the  wood  on  whom  I  could 
rely,  if  by  chance  I  took  the  wrong  turning. 
So,  "O  yes!"  I  answered,  "I  have  in  my 
wanderings  passed  by  your  castle  many  a 
time.  It  stands  high  among  the  rocks  in  the 
middle  of  the  wood,  so  high  among  the  sum- 
mer clouds  that  it  makes  one  dizzy  to  look 
up  at  it,  with  its  donjons  and  keeps  and 
draw-bridges  and  battlements,  glittering  with 
men-at-arms,  and  here  and  there,  blowing 
loose  among  the  stone  towers,  the  bright  hair 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  1 2  7 

of  some  beautiful  waiting-woman,  watching 
the  dark  avenues  of  the  woods  for  the  re- 
turning   huntsmen,    and    one    loved    face 
among  the  merry  horns.     All  around  the 
castle  grow  the  oldest  trees  of  the  wood,  very- 
close  and  dark,  and  seeming  to  touch  the 
sky;  and  thereabout  are  grim  rocks,   and 
hollow  caves  haunted  by  dragons  and  many 
another  evil  thing.     In  one  of  these  a  giant 
lives,   so  terrible  that  the  bravest  knights 
have  gone  up  against  him  —  only  to  leave 
their  bones  to  whiten  at  the  mouth  of  his 
cave.     And  by  the  castle  walls  runs  an  en- 
chanted river,  in  which  live  beautiful  water- 
witches,   that  sing  in  the  moonlight,   and 
draw  the  lonely  home-returning  knight  down 
into  their  watery  bowers.     In  the  castle  itself 
is  one  tower  loftier  than  all  the  rest,  with 
windows  on  every  side,  through  which  you 
can  see,  as  in  a  magic  glass,  the  whole  wide 
earth,  with  its  cities  and  its  roads  and  all  its 
hidden  places.     And  there,  all  day  long,  sits 
an  aged  wizard  listening  to  the  world,  and 
weaving  his  spells — -*" 


128    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Yes!"  said  the  Princess,  perhaps  a  little 
impatient  at  my  long  description.  "That  is 
my  castle.  But  are  you  quite  sure  that  you 
know  the  way?" 

At  that  moment  there  came  and  perched 
upon  a  bough  close  by  one  of  those  friends, 
on  whom,  as  I  said,  I  was  relying  to  help  me 
out  if  I  should  lose  my  way.  It  was  a  Blue- 
Bird,  with  which  I  had  become  well- 
acquainted  in  my  rambles  in  the  wood. 

"Wait  a  moment,  Princess,"  I  said.  "To 
make  quite  sure,  I  will  consult  this  friend  of 
mine  here." 

Now  I  must  explain  that  the  Blue-Bird, 
being  himself  a  singer,  it  is  necessary  to  ad- 
dress him  in  song.  Plain  prose  he  is  quite 
unable  to  understand.  So,  if  I  had  said: 
"Blue-Bird,  please  tell  me  the  way  to  the 
Castle  of  Princess  Once-Upon-a-Time,"  he 
would  have  shaken  his  head  like  a  deaf  man. 
Therefore,  I  spoke  to  him  in  this  fashion  in- 
stead ;  or,  rather,  I  should  say  that  this  is  the 
grown-up  meaning  of  what  I  sang  —  for 
the  actual  song  I  have  forgotten : 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  129 

0  Blue-Bird,  sing  the  hidden  way 

To  Once-Upon-a-Time; 
We  know  you  cannot  speak  in  prose, 

So  answer  us  in  rhyme. 

Blue-Bird  of  Dreams,  alone  you  know 

The  way  the  dream-folk  take, 
O  tell  us  the  right  way  to  go, 

Before,  Blue-Bird,  we  wake. 

Dreamers,  we  seek  the  way  of  dreams  — 

O  you  that  know  so  well 
Each  twist  and  turning  of  the  way, 

Blue-Bird,  will  you  not  tell? 

Blue-Bird,  if  aught  that  we  possess 

Has  any  worth  to  you, 
O  take  it,  Blue-Bird,  here  it  is, 

But  tell  us  what  to  do. 

The  way  of  dreams,  the  wonder- way, 

Wonder  and  winding  streams, 
Blue- Bird,  two  dreamers  ask  of  you 

To  point  the  way  of  dreams. 

The  way  is  dangerous,  we  know, 

And  much  beset  with  dread ; 
But  then,  it  is  the  only  way, 

Blue-Bird,  we  care  to  tread. 

For  this  we  know:  no  fact  or  fear 

Of  the  dream-world  we  seek 
Can  be  so  terrible  to  us 

As  those  that,  week  by  week, 


i3o    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Day  in,  day  out,  bleach  and  benumb 

The  sacred  self  sincere, 
The  death  domestic  who  hath  faced 

Hath  faced  the  whole  of  fear. 

We  are  so  fearful  we  may  lose 

The  thrill  and  scent  of  things, 
Forget  the  way  to  smell  a  flower, 

Hear  a  bird  when  it  sings. 

O  Blue-Bird;  sing  us  on  our  way 
Beyond  the  world  that  seems  — 

Two  dreamers  who  have  lost  their  way  — 
Back  to  the  world  of  dreams. 

To  this  the  Blue- Bird  made  answer  in  a 
song,  which,  as  before,  I  translate  into 
grown-up  language : 

The  way  of  dreams  —  the  Blue-Bird  sang  — 

Is  never  hard  to  find, 
So  soon  as  you  have  really  left 

The  grown-up  world  behind. 

So  soon  as  you  have  come  to  see 

That  what  the  others  call 
Realities,  for  such  as  you, 

Are  never  real  at  all ; 

So  soon  as  you  have  ceased  to  care 

What  others  say  or  do, 
And  understand  that  they  are  they, 

And  you  —  thank  God !  —  are  you. 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  131 

Then  is  your  foot  upon  the  path, 

Your  journey  well  begun, 
And  safe  the  road  for  you  to  tread, 

Moonlight,  or  morning  sun. 

Pence  of  this  world  you  shall  not  take, 

Yea !  no  provision  heed ; 
A  wild-rose  gathered  in  the  wood 

Will  buy  you  all  you  need. 

Hungry,  the  birds  shall  bring  you  food, 

The  bees  their  honey  bring; 
And,  thirsty,  you  the  crystal  drink 

Of  an  immortal  spring. 

For  sleep,  behold  how  deep  and  soft 

With  moss  the  earth  is  spread, 
And  all  the  trees  of  all  the  world 

Shall  curtain  round  your  bed. 

Enchanted  journey!  that  begins 

Nowhere  and  nowhere  ends, 
Seeking  an  ever-changing  goal, 

Nowhither  winds  and  wends. 

For  destination  yonder  flower, 

For   business   yonder   bird, 
Aught  better  worth  the  travelling  to 

I  never  saw  or  heard. 

O  long  dream- travel  of  the  soul! 

First  the  green  earth  to  tread  — 
And  still  yon  other  starry  track 

To  travel  when  you  're  dead. 


132    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

With  directions  so  explicit,  it  was  next  to 
impossible  to  miss  the  way.  So,  with  little 
hesitation,  Princess  Once-Upon-a-Time  and 
I  stepped  out  through  the  old  wood  on  the 
way  to  her  castle.  As  we  went  along,  she 
told  me  many  things  that  I  have  never  for- 
gotten, for  all  of  them  have  come  true ;  but 
it  is  necessary  for  the  reader  to  be  reminded 
that  I  was  still  quite  a  boy,  little  more  than 
a  child,  and  was,  therefore,  too  inexperienced 
to  give  the  proper  value  to  what  she  told  me. 
This  speech  of  hers  particularly  has  remained 
with  me.  She  said  it  as  we  were  nearing  the 
end  of  our  walk  together,  and  the  turrets  of 
her  castle  were  coming  in  sight. 

"This  is  not  the  last  time  we  shall  meet/' 
she  said,  "  indeed,  we  shall  meet  many  times. 
In  a  sense  we  shall  be  always  meeting, 
though  you  may  not  recognise  me;  for  you 
are  one  of  those  who  are  born  my  subjects. 
You  are  one  of  those  for  whom  there  is  no 
Present,  no  Future.  Your  life  will  always 
be  lived  as  a  dream  of  What-Might-Have- 
Been,  or  What-Once-Was.  Your  happiness 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  133 

will  always  be  —  once-upon-a-time!  You 
are  of  those  who  are  foredoomed  to  love  the 
shadow  of  joy,  and  the  dream  of  love.  Noth- 
ing real  will  ever  happen  to  you  —  for  the 
reason  that  your  experience  will  be  forever 
haunted  by  the  more  beautiful  things  that 
might  have  happened,  or  once-upon-a-time 
did  happen  to  more  fortunate  men.  No  beauty 
will  ever  seem  beautiful  enough  —  for  your 
eyes  will  be  always  upon  Helen  of  Troy,  or 
Cleopatra  of  Egypt.  However  bright  your 
fortune,  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  a  brighter 
fortune  will  continually  flicker  before  you. 
Your  dream  can  never  be  fulfilled  —  because 
it  is  so  entirely  a  dream.  All  your  days  you 
shall  be  possessed  of  old  stories,  and  forgotten 
fancies,  and  you  shall  love  only  the  face  you 
shall  never  find." 

And,  as  she  ended,  Princess  Once-Upon- 
a-Time  bade  me  farewell,  for  by  this  we  had 
come  to  the  gate  of  her  castle. 

I  went  back  home  through  the  wood,  with 
her  eyes  in  my  heart,  and  her  words  talking 
to-and-fro  in  my  brain.  Twice  I  lost  my 


i34  DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

way,  but  the  friends  on  whom  I  relied  did  not 
forsake  me.  Once  it  was  a  beautiful  little 
snake  that  zig-zagged  in  front  of  me  till  we 
came  to  the  right  turning.  And  once  it  was 
a  chipmunk  that  seemed  to  know  everything. 
By  the  time  I  came  to  the  home-end  of  the 
wood,  the  stars  were  rising,  and  the  little 
creatures  of  the  night  were  creaking  and 
whirring  about  me.  The  windows  of  home 
were  shining  with  lamps  —  welcome  beacons, 
no  doubt  you  will  say  —  and  yet,  strange  as 
it  may  sound,  I  was  rather  sorry  to  come  upon 
them  so  easily.  They  seemed  so  safe  and 
comfortable  —  bed  at  nine  and  oatmeal 
porridge  in  the  morning.  I  knew  that  so 
soon  as  I  lifted  the  latch  all  mystery  was  at 
an  end.  Even  the  punishment  that  would 
surely  fall  upon  me  for  my  truancy  was  quite 
unmysterious  —  almost  as  familiar  as  my 
porridge.  Bed  and  porridge  —  and  those 
voices  in  the  wood!  O  anti-climax  of  a 
wonderful  day.  How  truly  had  the  Princess 
spoken.  What  was  home  to  me  —  with  its 
trimmed  lamps,  and  its  quiet  carpets  and 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  135 

its  regular  hours ;  what  was  home  compared 
with  those  night-voices  and  the  rising  moon. 

Still,  being  hungry,  I  chose  the  kitchen 
door,  and  by  a  friendly  domestic  was  smug- 
gled away  to  bed  —  with  a  stomach  full  of 
pleasant  dreams. 

Such  was  my  first  meeting  with  Once- 
Upon-a-Time. 

Next  time  I  met  her  my  boyhood  was  gone 
by,  and  my  fancy  was  no  longer  occupied 
with  the  nursery-stories  of  which  the  Blue- 
Bird  had  sung.  Giants  and  dragons  were 
receding  from  my  imagination,  and  my 
fancy,  I  must  confess,  was  beginning  to  take 
a  more  sentimental  turn.  The  wood  still 
remained  my  wonderland,  but  the  wonders  I 
sought  there  were  of  a  different,  if  scarcely 
less  dangerous,  character.  By  this  I  had 
exchanged  my  nursery-books  for  the  Mort 
D' Arthur  and  Spenser  and  Shakespeare 
and  such  like  romantic  literature;  and  my 
head  was,  therefore,  full  of  the  beautiful 
ladies  and  noble  lovers  of  old  time.  I  fear 


136    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

there  is  no  denying  that  I  had  by  this  be- 
jcome  quite  bookish,  and  you  could  scarcely 
have  encountered  me  in  the  wood  or  else- 
where, without  some  poet  or  some  old  play- 
book  under  my  arm.  Ah,  how  happy  were 
those  long  summer  mornings  when  I  would 
lie  upon  a  green  bank,  absorbed  in  some 
honeyed  tale  of  lovers  dead  and  gone,  with 
the  green  boughs  above  sunnily  silhouetted 
on  the  page.  And,  just  as  when  a  boy  the 
wood  had  been  the  scene  of  all  my  old  nurs- 
ery-stories, so  still  it  served  me  as  the  stage 
for  all  my  romantic  heroes  and  heroines.  It 
was  by  turns  every  wood  mentioned  in  my 
poets.  Of  course,  it  was,  first  and  foremost 
the  Forest  of  Arden;  and  one  particular 
glade  presided  over  by  a  giant  oak  was 
easily  identified  by  me  as  the  green  court- 
room of  the  banished  Duke.  As  for  Jacques, 
I  felt  myself  his  very  brother,  and  replen- 
ished the  woodland  streams  with  sentimen- 
tal tears,  with  no  less  enjoyment  of  my  own 
melancholy  than  he.  Rosalind,  of  course,  I 
was  expecting  to  meet  with  every  moment, 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  137 

and  did  not  fail  to  inscribe  the  tree-trunks 
with  sundry  rhymes  which  I  hoped  might 
catch  her  eye.  Of  these  I  may  have  a  story 
to  tell  later.  When  the  wood  was  in  darker 
moods,  when  it  wore  its  tragic  mask  of 
thunder  and  lightning,  or  put  on  some  sinis- 
ter witchery  of  twilight,  I  would  say  that 
Macbeth  was  on  his  way  to  meet  the  weird 
sisters.  Sometimes,  it  was  "a  wood  near 
Athens,"  or  at  others,  remembering  my 
Keats,  it  was  that  "forest  on  the  shores  of 
Crete,"  where  Lycius  met  the  snake-woman 
Lamia.  The  wood,  indeed,  was  filled  with 
memories  of  Keats,  and  if  any  one  in  the 
world  knew  where  the  lover  of  Isabella  had 
been  buried  by  her  murderous  brothers, 
surely  it  was  I.  I  too  had  discovered  the  hol- 
low oak  where  Merlin  lay  entranced;  and 
many  a  night,  hidden  behind  the  bole  of 
some  gigantic  beech,  had  watched  Selene 
bend  in  a  bright  crescent  above  her  sleeping 
shepherd  lad. 

But  it  is  time  I  told  you  of  my  second 
meeting    with    Once-Upon-a-Time.     I    was 


138    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

lying  in  a  bower  of  wild-roses  which  I  had 
purposely  trained  to  resemble  the  bower  in 
which  Nicolete  slept  the  night  when  she  fled 
from  the  castle  of  Beaucaire,  as  we  have  all 
read  in  the  delectable  history  of  the  loves  of 
Aucassin  and  Nicolete.  It  was  the  golden 
end  of  afternoon,  and  the  shadows  were  still 
made  half  of  gold.  I  was  lying  face  down 
over  my  book,  when  suddenly  I  seemed 
aware  of  a  new  presence  near  me  —  as  one  is 
conscious  that  a  bird  had  alighted  on  a 
bough  close  by,  or  a  flower  newly  opened. 
Being  accustomed  to  such  companions,  I  did 
not  look  up.  I  was  too  deep  in  the  loves  of 
my  book  folk,  and  too  anxious  to  finish  the 
long  euphuistic  chapter  before  the  setting 
sun  should  warn  me  of  dinner-time.  But 
presently  a  low  laugh  sounded  behind  me, 
and  the  sweetest  of  voices  said : 

"  Young  sir,  you  are  very  selfish  with  that 
great  book  there  "  —  I  may  say  that  it  was  a 
folio  Arcadia  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney  —  "  it  is  so 
big  that  I  am  sure  that  there  is  room  for  two 
pairs  of  eyes — " 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  139 

"Come  read  with  me,"  said  I,  looking  up 
and  blushing. 

"Nay,  I  am  no  Francesca,"  she  answered; 
"  I  would  not  interrupt  your  reading,  young 
Paolo." 

"  But  I  am  tired  of  reading,"  I  said,  clos- 
ing the  old  book. 

"  The  sun  will  soon  be  gone,"  she  answered. 
"  Had  you  not  better  finish  your  chapter? " 

"I  would  rather  finish  it  by  moonlight," 
I  answered,  looking  into  her  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  saucy  stripling,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  not  be  surprised  if  you  wrote  these 
lines  I  just  found  on  yonder  tree." 

"What  lines?"  I  asked;  for  the  trees,  to 
tell  the  truth,  were  tattooed  with  my  verses. 

"These,"  she  answered. 

"O  these!"  I  said,  laughing. 

"Read  them  to  me,"  she  said. 

"But  they  are  so  long,"  I  hesitated,  "no 
less  than  a  chant-royal  —  a  Prayer  to  the 
Queen  of  Love,  in  five  long  verses,  and  an 
envoi!  Are  you  quite  sure  you  can  support 
so  much  verse  at  one  sitting — " 


140    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"I  have  not  lived  at  the  Court  of 
King  Ren6e  for  nothing,"  she  replied, 
laughing. 

"The  Court  of  King  Ren6e!"  I  ex- 
claimed, looking  at  her  in  amazement.  "  You 
have  really  lived  there?  How  wonderful! 
Tell  me  about  it." 

"Indeed,  I  have!"  she  answered,  with  a 
mocking  expression  that  seemed  strangely 
at  variance  with  her  romantic  privileges. 
"O  yes!  No  doubt  it  is  a  wonderful  place 
for  you  ballad-making  gentlemen.  There 
you  can  strum  and  hum  all  day  to  your 
heart's  content,  and  your  poor  bored  mis- 
tresses must  listen  to  all  your  magniloquent 
nonsense,  without  a  yawn  —  besides  being 
quite  sure  that  you  don't  mean  a  single 
word  of  it.  Yes!  No  woman  can  live  at  the 
Court  of  King  Renee  unless  she  is  prepared 
for  poetry  morning,  noon  and  night  —  Yes! 
and  far  into  the  middle  of  the  night  —  and 
even,  when  at  last  you  have  fallen  asleep 
again,  after  being  awakened  by  some  long- 
winded  serenade,  you  are  barely  off,  when, 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  141 

with  the  first  break  of  dawn,  comes  another 
fool  beneath  your  window  with  his  lute  and 
his  falsetto  singing  you  an  'aubade!'  An 
aubade,  indeed!  And  you  at  last  so  beauti- 
fully asleep.  As  you  would  have  your  lady 
love  you,  dear  youth  —  never  sing  her  an 
aubade!" 

"  I  marvel  that,  with  such  a  distaste  for 
song-craft,"  I  said,  "that  you  should  bid  me 
read  you  a  chant-royal,  a  form  so  much 
longer  than  the  aubade " 

"O  that  is  different!  It  is  not  made  use 
of  to  wake  beautiful  ladies  from  their  sleep 
at  unreasonable  hours,  but  reminds  one  of 
dreamy  old  orchards  in  summer  afternoons, 
and  the  drowsy  bees  and  the  flitting  butter- 
flies, and  the  sea  a  flickering  riband  of  blue 
in  the  distance.  It  is  like  the  murmur  of  a 
beautiful  voice  talking  low  to  a  beautiful 
lady  in  the  still  summer  afternoon.  The 
sound  of  the  voice  is  soothing,  and  one  pays 
no  heed  to  the  words.  Besides,"  she  ended, 
laughing,  "  I  like  the  poet,  and  that  makes  a 
great  difference " 


142    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

At  this  I  bent  low  and  kissed  her  hand, 
and  without  further  parley  began  to  read : 

0  mighty  Queen,  our  Lady  of  the  fire, 
The  light,  the  music,  and  the  honey,  all 

Blent  in  one  power,  one  passionate  desire 
Man  calleth  Love  —  'Sweet  Love,'  the 
blessed  call  — 

1  come  a  sad-eyed  suppliant  to  thy  knee, 
If  thou  hast  pity,  pity  grant  to  me; 

If  thou  hast  bounty,  here  a  heart  I  bring 
For  all  that  bounty  thirst  and  hungering ; 

0  Lady,  save  thy  grace,  there  is  no  way 
For  me,  I  know,  but  lonely  sorrowing  — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

1  lay  in  darkness,  face  down  in  the  mire, 

And  prayed  that  darkness  might  become  my 

pall; 
The  rabble  rout  roared  round  me  like  some 

quire 

Of  filthy  animals  primordial; 
My  heart  seemed  like  a  toad  eternally 
Prisoned  in  stone,  ugly  and  sad  as  he; 

Sweet   sunlight   seemed   a   dream,  a  mythic 

thing, 

And  life  some  beldam's  dotard  gossiping: 
Then  Lady,  I  bethought  me  of  thy  sway, 

And  hoped  again, rose  up  this  prayer  to  wing — 
Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  143 

Lady,  I  bear  no  high  resounding  lyre 

To  hymn  thy  glory,  and  thy  foes  appal 
With  thunderous  splendour  of  my  rhythmic 
ire; 

A  little  lute  I  lightly  touch,  and  small 
My  skill  thereon:  yet,  Lady,  if  it  be 
I  ever  woke  ear- winning  melody, 

'Twas  for  thy  praise  I  sought  the  throbbing 
string, 

Thy  praise  alone  —  for  all  my  worshipping 
Is  at  thy  shrine,  thou  knowest,  day  by  day ; 

Then  shall  it  be  in  vain  my  plaint  to  sing? 
Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

Yea!  Why  of  all  men  should  this  sorrow  dire 

Unto  thy  servant  bitterly  befall  ? 
For,  Lady,  thou  dost  know  I  ne'er  did  tire 

Of  thy  sweet  sacraments  and  ritual; 
In  morning  meadows  I  have  knelt  to  thee, 
In  noontide  woodlands  hearkened  hushedly 

Thy  heart's  warm  beat  in  sacred  slumbering, 

And  in  the  spaces  of  the  night  heart  ring 
Thy  voice  in  answer  to  the  spheral  lay: 

Now  'neath  thy  throne  my  suppliant  life  I 

fling  — 
Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray! 

I  ask  no  maid  for  all  men  to  admire, 

Mere  body's  beauty  hath  in  me  no  thrall, 
And  noble  birth,  and  sumptuous  attire, 


144    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Are  gauds  I  crave  not  —  yet  shall  have  withal, 
With  a  sweet  difference,  in  my  heart's  own 

She, 

Whom  words  speak  not,  but  eyes  know  when 
they  see, 

Beauty  beyond  all  glass's  mirroring, 

And  dream  and  glory  hers  for  garmenting; 
Her  birth  —  O  Lady,  wilt  thou  say  me  nay  ?  — 

Of  thine  own  womb,  of  thine  own  nurturing  — 
Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray ! 

ENVOI 

Sweet  Queen  who  sittest  at  the  heart  of  spring, 
My  life  is  thine,  barren  or  blossoming; 

'Tis  thine  to  flush  it  gold  or  leave  it  grey: 
And  so  unto  thy  garment's  hem  I  cling — 

Send  me  a  maiden  meet  for  love,  I  pray. 

"I  wonder, "  I  said  after  a  little  while, 
when  she  had  praised  my  verses,  and  I  sat  by 
her  side  holding  her  hands  and  looking  into 
her  strange  far-away  eyes,  "  I  wonder  if  you 
are  the  answer  to  my  prayer  —  for  so  soon 
as  I  looked  upon  you,  I  gave  you  all  my  love, 
and,  if  you  cannot  give  me  yours  in  return, 
my  heart  will  break  — " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  her  eyes 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  145 

seemed  to  grow  still  more  far-away,  but  she 
made  no  answer  more,  for  all  my  entreaties, 
till  at  last  the  day  had  gone,  and  the  moon 
was  rising  through  the  wood  —  and  she  still 
sitting  by  my  side  like  a  spirit  in  the  spectral 
light.  Once  I  seemed  to  hear  her  moan  in 
the  silence,  and  a  shiver  passed  through  her 
body.  Then  she  turned  her  eyes  upon  me  — 
they  seemed  like  wells  brimming  with  stars : 

"  I  love  you,"  she  said,  "  but  we  can  never 
be  each  other 's.  My  name  is  Once-Upon-a 
Time." 

At  this  I  threw  myself  at  her  feet  face 
down  in  the  grass  and  wept  bitterly,  and  I 
felt  her  hand  soothingly  laid  upon  my  hair, 
and  heard  her  voice  softly  bidding  me  be 
comforted.  And  for  a  long  time  it  was  so 
with  us,  till  methinks  I  must  have  fallen 
asleep  of  the  sweet  soothing  of  her  hand  on 
my  hair,  and  the  murmur  of  her  sweet  voice 
—  for,  when  I  raised  my  head  from  the  grass, 
the  place  was  empty  and  the  dawn  was  steal- 
ing with  feet  of  pearl  through  the  wood. 

The  dawn! 


146    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"She  feared,"  I  cried,  bitterly,  "she 
feared  that  I  might  sing  her  my  aubade!" 

But  this,  of  course,  was  only  the  lip- 
cynicism  of  my  sad  young  heart,  stricken 
with  the  arrows  of  that  haunted  beauty. 

Once-Upon-a-Time!  Thus  had  the  Prin- 
cess met  me  again  as  she  had  said,  and  often 
as  I  grew  up  to  be  a  man,  and  walked  but 
seldom  in  that  old  wood  of  dreams,  her 
words  would  come  back  to  me:  "You  are 
of  those  who  are  foredoomed  to  love  the 
shadow  of  joy,  and  the  dream  of  love.  Your 
happiness  will  always  be  —  Once-Upon-a 
Time."  For,  as  I  walked  the  ways  of  the 
world,  I  saw  that  my  old  wood  had  only 
been  a  dream  picture  of  the  real  world  out- 
side, and  that  the  real  world  itself,  in  which 
my  manhood  was  now  called  on  to  play  its 
part,  was  no  less  a  dream  of  beauty  and 
terror,  of  love  and  death,  of  good  and  evil, 
than  my  old  wood  itself;  and,  like  my  old 
wood,  it  seemed  haunted  for  me  by  the  face 
of  a  Princess  —  some  dear,  desired  face  of 
woman  lost  amid  these  drifting  faces,  as  in 


ONCE-UPON-A-TIME  147 

my  boyhood  it  had  been  lost  among  the 
leaves  of  the  wood.  Beautiful  faces,  beauti- 
ful faces,  drifting  by  in  the  crowded  streets  — 
but  never  my  face  among  all  the  faces.  Hints 
of  my  face,  even  glimpses  perhaps  —  some- 
times almost  the  certainty  that  it  is  she  yonder 
— but  a  sudden  turn  of  the  head,  and  alas!  It 
is  not  she!  Yet  a  day  did  come  at  last,  when 
the  mob  of  unmeaning  faces  seemed  suddenly 
to  open,  as  the  clouds  fall  away  right  and  left 
before  the  moon ;  or  as  in  a  wilderness  of  leaves 
without  a  blossom,  one  should  come  upon 
the  breathless  beauty  of  some  lonely  flower. 

Yes!  It  was  my  face  at  last. 

We  looked  at  each  other  but  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  street,  which  her  beauty  had 
suddenly  made  silent  for  me  as  the  desert  — 
but  for  a  moment,  yet  Eternity  must  be  like 
that  look  we  gave  each  other. 

Then,  though  she  spoke  no  audible  word, 
my  heart  heard  her  say  : 

"Look  in  my  face;  my  name  is  Might- 
Have-Been;  I  am  also  called  No-More,  Too- 
Late,  Farewell." 


148    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

On  one  of  her  beautiful  fingers  my  sad 
eyes  had  caught  the  glimmer  of  a  small  gold 
band  —  and,  once  more  as  we  passed  away 
from  each  other,  my  bitter  heart  mocked  at 
its  own  bitterness,  and  remembering  my 
boyish  fairy-tales,  I  said  to  myself: 

"The  Princess  has  found  her  wedding 
ring!" 

And  that  was  my  last  meeting  with  Prin- 
cess Once-Upon-a-Time. 


The  Little  Joys  of  Margaret 


THE  LITTLE  JOYS  OF 
MARGARET 

MARGARET  had  seen  her  five  sisters  one 
by  one  leave  the  family  nest  to  set  up 
little  nests  of  their  own.  Her  brother,  the 
eldest  child  of  a  family  of  seven,  had  left  the 
old  home  almost  beyond  memory  and  settled 
in  London.  Now  and  again  he  made  a  flying 
visit  to  the  small  provincial  town  of  his  birth, 
and  sometimes  he  sent  two  little  daughters 
to  represent  him  —  for  he  was  already  a 
widowed  man  and  relied  occasionally  on  the 
old  roof-tree  to  replace  the  lost  mother. 
Margaret  had  seen  what  sympathetic  spec- 
tators called  her  "fate"  slowly  approaching 
for  some  time  —  particularly  when,  five 
years  ago,  she  had  broken  off  her  engagement 
with  a  worthless  boy.  She  had  loved  him 
deeply,  and,  had  she  loved  him  less,  a  refined 
girl  in  the  provinces  does  not  find  it  easy  to 
15* 


152    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

replace  a  discarded  suitor  —  for  the  choice 
of  young  men  is  not  excessive.  Her  sisters 
had  been  more  fortunate,  and  so,  as  I  have 
said,  one  by  one  they  left  their  father's  door 
in  bridal  veils.  But  Margaret  stayed  on,  and 
at  length,  as  had  been  foreseen,  became  the 
sole  nurse  of  a  beautiful  old  invalid  mother, 
a  kind  of  lay  sister  in  the  nunnery  of  home. 

She  came  of  a  beautiful  family.  In  all 
the  big  family  of  seven  there  was  not  one 
without  some  kind  of  good  looks.  Two  of 
her  sisters  were  acknowledged  beauties,  and 
there  were  those  who  considered  Margaret 
the  most  beautiful  of  all.  It  was  all  the 
harder,  such  sympathisers  said,  that  her 
youth  should  thus  fade  over  an  invalid's 
couch,  the  bloom  of  her  complexion  be  rub- 
bed out  by  arduous  vigils,  and  the  lines 
prematurely  etched  in  her  skin  by  the  strain 
of  a  self-denial  proper,  no  doubt,  to  homely 
girls  and  professional  nurses,  but  peculiarly 
wanton  and  wasteful  in  the  case  of  a  girl  so 
beautiful  as  Margaret. 

There  are,   alas!  a   considerable   number 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     153 

of  women  predestined  by  their  lack  of  per- 
sonal attractiveness  for  the  humbler  tasks  of 
life.  Instinctively  we  associate  them  with 
household  work,  nursing,  and  the  general 
drudgery  of  existence.  One  never  dreams  of 
their  having  a  life  of  their  own.  They  have 
no  accomplishments,  nor  any  of  the  feminine 
charms.  Women  to  whom  an  offer  of  mar- 
riage would  seem  as  terrifying  as  a  comet, 
they  belong  to  the  neutrals  of  the  human 
hive,  and  are,  practically  speaking,  only  a 
little  higher  than  the  paid  domestic.  Indeed, 
perhaps,  their  one  distinction  is  that  they 
receive  no  wages. 

Now  for  so  attractive  a  girl  as  Margaret 
to  be  merged  in  so  dreary,  undistinguished,  a 
class  was  manifestly  preposterous.  It  was  a 
stupid  misapplication  of  human  material.  A 
plainer  face  and  a  more  homespun  fibre 
would  have  served  the  purpose  equally 
well. 

Margaret  was  by  no  means  so  much  a 
saint  of  self-sacrifice  as  not  to  have  realised 
her  situation,  with  natural  human  pangs. 


154   DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Youth  only  comes  once  —  especially  to  a 
woman;  and 

No   hand  can  gather   up   the  withered  fallen 
petals  of  the  Rose  of  youth. 

Petal  by  petal,  Margaret  had  watched,  the 
rose  of  her  youth  fading  and  falling.  More 
than  all  her  sisters,  she  was  endowed  with  a 
zest  for  existence.  Her  superb  physical 
constitution  cried  out  for  the  joy  of  life.  She 
was  made  to  be  a  great  lover,  a  great  mother ; 
and  to  her,  more  than  most,  the  sunshine 
falling  in  muffled  beams  through  the  lattices 
of  her  mother's  sick-room  came  with  a  mad- 
dening summons  to  —  live.  She  was  so 
supremely  fitted  to  play  a  triumphant  part  in 
the  world  oustide  there,  so  gay  of  heart,  so 
victoriously  vital. 

At  first,  therefore,  the  renunciation,  ac- 
cepted on  the  surface  with  so  kind  a  face, 
was  a  source  of  secret  bitterness  and  hidden 
tears.  But  time,  with  its  mercy  of  com- 
pensation, had  worked  for  her  one  of  its 
many  mysterious  transmutations,  and  shown 
her  of  what  fine  gold  her  apparently  leaden 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     1 5  5 

days  were  made.  She  was  now  thirty-three ; 
though,  for  all  her  nursing  vigils,  she  did  not 
look  more  than  twenty-nine,  and  was  now 
more  than  resigned  to  the  loss  of  the  peculiar 
opportunities  of  youth  —  if,  indeed,  they 
could  be  said  to  be  lost  already.  "An  old 
maid,"  she  would  say,  "who  has  cheer- 
fully made  up  her  mind  to  be  an  old  maid, 
is  one  of  the  happiest,  and,  indeed,  most 
enviable,  people  in  all  the  world." 

Resent  the  law  as  we  may,  it  is  none  the 
less  true  that  renunciation  brings  with  it  a 
mysterious  initiation,  a  finer  insight.  Its 
discipline  would  seem  to  refine  and  temper 
our  organs  of  spiritual  perception,  and  thus 
make  up  for  the  commoner  experience  lost 
by  a  rarer  experience  gained.  By  dedicating 
herself  to  her  sick  mother,  Margaret  un- 
doubtedly lost  much  of  the  average  ex- 
perience of  her  sex  and  age,  but  almost  im- 
perceptibly it  had  been  borne  in  upon  her 
that  she  made  some  important  gains  of  a 
finer  kind.  She  had  been  brought  very 
close  to  the  mystery  of  human  life,  closer 


156    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

than  those  who  have  nothing  to  do  beyond 
being  thoughtlessly  happy  can  ever  come. 
The  nurse  and  the  priest  are  initiates  of  the 
same  knowledge.  Each  alike  is  a  sentinel 
on  the  mysterious  frontier  between  this 
world  and  the  next.  The  nearer  we  approach 
that  frontier,  the  more  we  understand,  not 
only  of  that  world  on  the  other  side,  but  of 
the  world  on  this.  It  is  only  when  death 
throws  its  shadow  over  the  page  of  life  that 
we  realise  the  full  significance  of  what  we 
are  reading.  Thus,  by  her  mother's  bed- 
side, Margaret  was  learning  to  read  the  page 
of  life  under  the  illuminating  shadow  of  death. 
But,  apart  from  any  such  mystical  com- 
pensation, Margaret's  great  reward  was  that 
she  knew  her  beautiful  old  mother  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world  knew  her.  As 
a  rule,  and  particularly  in  a  large  family, 
parents  remain  half  mythical  to  their  children, 
awe-inspiring  presences  in  the  home,  colossal 
figures  of  antiquity,  about  whose  knees  the 
younger  generation  crawls  and  gropes,  but 
whose  heads  are  hidden  in  the  mists  of 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     157 

pre-historic  legend.  They  are  like  personages 
in  the  Bible.  They  impress  our  imagination, 
but  we  cannot  think  of  them  as  being  quite 
real.  Their  histories  smack  of  legend.  And 
this,  of  course,  is  natural;  for  they  had  been 
in  the  world,  had  loved  and  suffered,  so  long 
before  us  that  they  seem  a  part  of  that 
ante-natal  mystery  out  of  which  we  sprang. 
When  they  speak  of  their  old  love-stories,  it 
is  as  though  we  were  reading  Homer.  It 
sounds  so  long  ago.  We  are  surprised  at  the 
vividness  with  which  they  recall  happenings 
and  personalities  past  and  gone  before,  as 
they  tell  us,  we  were  born.  Before  we  were 
born !  Yes !  They  belong  to  that  mysterious 
epoch  of  time  —  "  before  we  were  born  " ;  and 
unless  we  have  a  taste  for  history,  or  are 
drawn  close  to  them  by  some  sympathetic 
human  exigency,  as  Margaret  had  been  drawn 
to  her  mother,  we  are  too  apt,  in  the  stress 
of  making  our  own,  to  regard  the  history  of 
our  parents  as  dry-as-dust. 

As  the  old  mother  sits  there  so  quiet  in 
her  corner,  her  body  worn  to  a  silver  thread, 


158    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

and  hardly  anything  left  of  her  but  her 
indomitable  eyes;  it  is  hard,  at  least  for  a 
young  thing  of  nineteen,  all  aflush  and  aflurry 
with  her  new  party  gown,  to  realise  that  that 
old  mother  is  infinitely  more  romantic  than 
herself.  She  has  sat  there  so  long,  perhaps, 
as  to  have  come  to  seem  part  of  the  inanimate 
furniture  of  home,  rather  than  a  living  being. 
Well!  the  young  thing  goes  to  her  party, 
and  dances  with  some  callow  youth  who 
pays  her  clumsy  compliments,  and  Margaret 
remains  at  home  with  the  old  mother  in  her 
corner.  It  is  hard  on  Margaret!  Yes;  and 
yet,  as  I  have  said,  it  is  thus  she  comes  to 
know  her  old  mother  better  than  any  one 
else  knows  her  —  society  perhaps  not  so  poor 
an  exchange  for  that  of  smart,  immature 
young  men  of  one's  own  age. 

As  the  door  closes  behind  the  important 
rustle  of  youthful  laces,  and  Margaret  and 
her  mother  are  left  alone,  the  mother's  old 
eyes  light  up  with  an  almost  mischievous 
smile.  If  age  seems  humorous  to  youth, 
youth  is  even  more  humorous  to  age. 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     159 

"It  is  evidently  a  great  occasion,  Peg," 
the  old  voice  says,  with  the  suspicion  of 
a  gentle  mockery.  "Don't  you  wish  you 
were  going?" 

"You  naughty  old  mother!"  answers 
Margaret,  going  over  and  kissing  her. 

The  two  understand  each  other. 

"Well,  shall  we  go  on  with  our  book?" 
says  the  mother,  after  a  while. 

"  Yes,  dear,  in  a  moment.  I  have  first  to 
get  you  your  diet,  and  then  we  can  begin." 

"Bother  the  diet!"  says  the  courageous 
old  lady;  "for  two  pins  I  'd  go  to  the  ball 
myself.  That  old  taffeta  silk  of  mine  is  old 
enough  to  be  in  fashion  again.  What  do 
you  say,  Peg,  if  you  and  I  go  to  the  ball 
together?" 

"O  it's  too  much  trouble  dressing, 
mother.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  it  is,"  answers  the 
mother.  "Besides,  I  want  to  hear  what 
happens  next  to  those  two  beautiful  young 
people  in  our  book.  So  be  quick  with  my 
old  diet,  and  come  and  read." 


160    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

There  is  perhaps  nothing  so  lovely,  or  so 
well  worth  having,  as  the  gratitude  of  the 
old  towards  the  young  that  care  to  give  them 
more  than  the  perfunctory  ministrations  to 
which  they  have  long  since  grown  sadly 
accustomed.  There  was  no  reward  in  the 
world  that  Margaret  would  have  exchanged 
for  the  sweet  looks  of  her  old  mother,  who, 
being  no  merely  selfish  invalid,  knew  the 
value  and  the  cost  of  the  devotion  her  daugh- 
ter was  giving  her. 

"  I  can  give  you  so  little,  my  child,  for  all 
you  are  giving  me,"  her  mother  would  some- 
times say;  and  the  tears  would  spring  to 
Margaret's  eyes. 

Yes!  Margaret  had  her  reward  in  this 
alone  —  that  she  had  cared  to  decipher  the 
lined  old  document  of  her  mother's  face. 
Her  other  sisters  had  passed  it  by  more  or 
less  impatiently.  It  was  like  some  ancient 
manuscript  in  a  museum,  which  only  a  loving 
and  patient  scholar  takes  the  trouble  to  read. 
But  the  moment  you  begin  to  pick  out  the 
words,  how  its  crabbed  text  blossoms  with 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     16 1 

beautiful  meanings  and  fascinating  messages ! 
It  is  as  though  you  threw  a  dried  rose  into 
some  magic  water,  and  saw  it  unfold  and  take 
on  bloom  and  fill  with  perfume,  and  bring 
back  the  nightingale  that  sang  to  it  so  many 
years  ago.  So  Margaret  loved  her  mother's 
old  face,  and  learned  to  know  the  meaning  of 
every  line  on  it.  Privileged  to  see  that 
old  face  in  all  its  private  moments  of  feeling, 
under  the  transient  revivification  of  deathless 
memories,  she  was  able,  so  to  say,  to  recon- 
struct its  perished  beauty  and  realise  the 
romance  of  which  it  was  once  the  alluring 
candle.  For  her  mother  had  been  a  very 
great  beauty,  and  if,  like  Margaret,  you  are 
able  to  see  it,  there  is  no  history  so  fascinating 
as  the  bygone  love-affairs  of  old  people. 
How  much  more  fascinating  to  read  one's 
mother's  love-letters  than  one's  own! 

Even  in  the  history  of  the  heart  recent 
events  have  a  certain  crudity,  and  love 
itself  seems  the  more  romantic  for  having 
lain  in  lavender  for  fifty  years.  A  certain 
style,  a  certain  distinction,  beyond  question 


162    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

go  with  antiquity,  and  to  spend  your  days 
with  a  refined  old  mother  is  no  less  an  educa- 
tion in  style  and  distinction  than  to  spend 
them  in  the  air  of  old  cities,  under  the  shadow 
of  august  architecture,  and  in  the  sunset  of 
classic  paintings. 

The  longer  Margaret  lived  with  her  old 
mother,  the  less  she  valued  the  so-called 
"opportunities"  she  had  missed.  Coming 
out  of  her  mother's  world  of  memories,  there 
seemed  something  small,  even  common, 
about  the  younger  generation  to  which  she 
belonged  —  something  lacking  in  significance 
and  dignity. 

For  example,  it  had  been  her  dream,  as 
it  is  the  dream  of  every  true  woman,  to  be  a 
mother  herself :  and  yet,  somehow  —  though 
she  would  not  admit  it  in  so  many  words  — 
when  her  young  married  sisters  came  with 
their  babies,  there  was  something  about  their 
bustling  and  complacent  domesticity  that 
seemed  to  make  maternity  bourgeois.  She 
had  not  dreamed  of  being  a  mother  like  that. 
She  was  convinced  that  her  old  mother  had 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     163 

never  been  a  mother  like  that.  "  They  seem 
more  like  wet-nurses  than  mothers,"  she  said 
to  herself,  with  her  wicked  wit. 

Was  there,  she  asked  herself,  something 
in  realisation  that  inevitably  lost  you  the 
dream?  Was  to  incarnate  an  ideal  to 
materialise  it?  Did  the  finer  spirit  of  love 
necessarily  evaporate  like  some  volatile 
essence  with  marriage?  Was  it  better  to 
remain  an  idealistic  spectator  such  as  she  — 
than  to  run  the  risks  of  realisation? 

She  was  far  too  beautiful,  and  had  de- 
clined too  many  offers  of  commonplace 
marriage,  for  such  questioning  to  seem  the 
philosophy  of  disappointment.  Indeed,  the 
more  she  realised  her  own  situation,  the 
more  she  came  to  regard  what  others  con- 
sidered her  sacrifice  to  her  mother  as  a  safe- 
guard against  the  risk  of  a  mediocre 
domesticity.  Indeed,  she  began  to  feel  a 
certain  pride,  as  of  a  priestess,  in  the  con- 
servation of  the  dignity  of  her  nature.  It  is 
better  to  be  a  vestal  virgin  than  —  some 
mothers. 


1 64    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

And,  after  all,  the  maternal  instinct  of 
her  nature  found  an  ideal  outlet  in  her 
brother's  children  —  the  two  little  mother- 
less girls,  who  came  every  year  to  spend  their 
holidays  with  their  grandmother  and  their 
aunt  Margaret. 

Margaret  had  seen  but  little  of  their 
mother,  but  her  occasional  glimpses  of  her 
had  left  her  with  a  haloed  image  of  a  delicate, 
spiritual  face  that  grew  more  and  more 
Madonna-like  with  memory.  The  nimbus  of 
the  Divine  Mother,  as  she  herself  had  dreamed 
of  her,  had  seemed  indeed  to  illumine  that 
grave  young  face. 

It  pleased  her  imagination  to  take  the 
place  of  that  phantom  mother,  herself  — 
a  phantom  mother.  And  who  knows  but 
that  such  dream-children,  as  she  called  those 
two  little  girls,  were  more  satisfactory  in 
the  end  than  real  children?  They  repre- 
sented, so  to  say,  the  poetry  of  children. 
Had  Margaret  been  a  real  mother,  there 
would  have  been  the  prose  of  children  as 
well.  But  here,  as  in  so  much  else, 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     165 

Margaret's  seclusion  from  the  responsible 
activities  of  the  outside  world  enabled  her 
to  gather  the  fine  flower  of  existence  without 
losing  the  sense  of  it  in  the  cares  of  its  culti- 
vation. I  think  that  she  comprehended  the 
wonder  and  joy  of  children  more  than  if  she 
had  been  a  real  mother. 

Seclusion  and  renunciation  are  great 
sharpeners  and  refiners  of  the  sense  of  joy, 
chiefly  because  they  encourage  the  habit 
of  attentiveness. 

"Our  excitements  are  very  tiny,"  once 
said  the  old  mother  to  Margaret,  "  therefore 
we  make  the  most  of  them." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,  mother,"  Mar- 
garet had  answered.  "I  think  it  is  theirs 
that  are  tiny  —  trivial  indeed,  and  ours 
that  are  great.  People  in  the  world  lose  the 
values  of  life  by  having  too  much  choice; 
too  much  choice  —  of  things  not  worth 
having.  This  makes  them  miss  the  real 
things  —  just  as  any  one  living  in  a  city 
cannot  see  the  stars  for  the  electric  lights. 
But  we,  sitting  quiet  in  our  corner,  have 


166   DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

time  to  watch  and  listen  when  the  others 
must  hurry  by.  We  have  time,  for  instance, 
to  watch  that  sunset  yonder,  whereas  some 
of  our  worldly  friends  would  be  busy  dressing 
to  go  out  to  a  bad  play.  We  can  sit  here  and 
listen  to  that  bird  singing  his  vespers  as  long 
as  he  will  sing  —  and  personally  I  would  n't 
exchange  him  for  a  prima  donna.  Far  from 
being  poor  in  excitements,  I  think  we  have 
quite  as  many  as  are  good  for  us,  and  those 
we  have  are  very  beautiful  and  real." 

"You  are  a  brave  child,"  answered  her 
mother.  "  Come  and  kiss  me,"  and  she  took 
the  beautiful  gold  head  into  her  hands  and 
kissed  her  daughter  with  her  sweet  old  mouth, 
so  lost  among  wrinkles  that  it  was  some- 
times hard  to  find  it. 

"But  am  I  not  right,  mother?"  said 
Margaret. 

"Yes!  you  are  right,  dear,  but  you  seem 
too  young  to  know  such  wisdom." 

"I  have  to  thank  you  for  it,  darling," 
answered  Margaret,  bending  down  and  kiss- 
ing her  mother's  beautiful  grey  hair. 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     167 

"Ah!  little  one,"  replied  the  mother,  "it 
is  well  to  be  wise,  but  it  is  good  to  be  fool- 
ish when  we  are  young  —  and  I  fear  I  have 
robbed  you  of  your  foolishness." 

"  I  shall  believe  you  have  if  you  talk  like 
that,"  retorted  Margaret,  laughingly  taking 
her  mother  into  her  arms  and  gently  shaking 
her,  as  she  sometimes  did  when  the  old  lady 
was  supposed  to  have  been  "naughty." 

So  for  Margaret  and  her  mother  the  days 
pass,  and  at  first,  as  we  have  said,  it  may 
seem  a  dull  life,  and  even  a  hard  one,  for 
Margaret.  But  she  herself  has  long  ceased 
to  think  so,  and  she  dreads  the  inevitable 
moment  when  the  divine  friendship  between 
her  and  her  old  mother  must  come  to  an  end. 
She  knows,  of  course,  that  it  must  come,  and 
that  the  day  cannot  be  far  off  when  the 
weary  old  limbs  will  refuse  to  make  the  tiny 
journeys  from  bedroom  to  rocking-chair  which 
have  long  been  all  that  has  been  demanded  of 
them;  when  the  brave,  humorous  old  eyes 
will  be  so  weary  that  they  cannot  keep  open 


168    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

any  more  in  this  world.  The  thought  is  one 
that  is  insupportably  lonely,  and  sometimes 
she  looks  at  the  invalid-chair,  at  the  cup  and 
saucer  in  which  she  serves  her  mother's 
simple  food,  at  the  medicine-bottle  and  the 
measuring-glass,  at  the  knitted  shawl  which 
protects  the  frail  old  form  against  draughts, 
and  at  all  such  sad  furniture  of  an  invalid's 
life,  and  pictures  the  day  when  the  homely, 
affectionate  use  of  all  these  things  will  be 
gone  forever;  for  so  poignant  is  humanity 
that  it  sanctifies  with  endearing  associations 
even  objects  in  themselves  so  painful  and 
prosaic.  And  it  seems  to  Margaret  that 
when  that  day  comes,  it  would  be  most 
natural  for  her  to  go  on  the  same  journey 
with  her  mother  —  and  still  be  her  loving 
nurse  in  Paradise! 

For  who  shall  fill  for  her  her  mother's  place 
on  earth  —  and  what  occupation  will  be 
left  for  Margaret  when  her  "  beautiful  old 
raison  d'etre"  as  she  sometimes  calls  her 
mother,  has  entered  into  the  sleep  of  the 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     169 

blessed?  She  seldom  thinks  of  that,  for  the 
thought  is  too  lonely,  and,  meanwhile,  she 
uses  all  her  love  and  care  to  make  this  earth 
so  attractive  and  cosey  that  the  beautiful 
mother-spirit,  who  has  been  so  long  prepared 
for  her  short  journey  to  heaven,  may  be 
tempted  to  linger  here  yet  a  little  while 
longer.  These  ministrations,  which  began 
as  a  kind  of  renunciation,  have  now  turned 
into  an  unselfish  selfishness.  Margaret  began 
by  feeling  herself  necessary  to  her  mother; 
now  her  mother  becomes  more  and  more 
necessary  to  Margaret.  Sometimes  when 
she  leaves  her  alone  for  a  few  moments  in  her 
chair,  she  laughingly  bends  over  and  says, 
"  Promise  me  that  you  won't  run  away  to 
heaven  while  my  back  is  turned." 

And  the  old  mother  smiles  one  of  those 
transfigured  smiles  which  seem  only  to  light 
up  the  faces  of  those  that  are  already  half 
over  the  border  of  the  spiritual  world. 

Winter  is,  of  course,  Margaret's  time  of 
chief  anxiety,  and  then  her  efforts  are 
redoubled  to  detain  her  beloved  spirit  in  an 


170    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

inclement  world.  Each  winter  passed  in 
safety  seems  a  personal  victory  over  death. 
How  anxiously  she  watches  for  the  first  sign 
of  the  returning  spring,  how  eagerly  she 
brings  the  news  of  early  blade  and  bud,  and, 
with  the  first  violet,  she  feels  that  the  danger 
is  over  for  another  year.  When  the  spring 
is  so  afire  that  she  is  able  to  fill  her  mother's 
lap  with  a  fragrant  heap  of  crocus  and  daffo- 
dil, she  dares  at  last  to  laugh  and  say: 

"  Now  confess,  mother,  that  you  won't  find 
sweeter  flowers  even  in  heaven." 

And  when  the  thrush  is  on  the  apple  bough 
outside  the  window,  Margaret  will  sometimes 
employ  the  same  gentle  raillery. 

"Do  you  think,  mother,"  she  will  say, 
"  that  an  angel  could  sing  sweeter  than  that 
thrush?" 

"  You  seern  very  sure,  Margaret,  that  I  am 
going  to  heaven,"  the  old  mother  will  some- 
times say,  with  one  of  her  arch  old  smiles; 
"but  do  you  know  that  I  stole  two  pepper- 
mints yesterday  ? ' ' 

"  You  did ! "  says  Margaret. 


LITTLE  JOYS  OF  MARGARET     1 7 1 

"  I  did  indeed! "  answers  the  mother,  "  and 
they  have  been  on  my  conscience  ever  since." 

"Really,  mother!  I  don't  know  what  to 
say,"  answers  Margaret.  "  I  had  no  idea  that 
you  are  so  wicked." 

Many  such  little  games  the  two  play  to- 
gether, as  the  days  go  by ;  and  often  at  bed- 
time, as  Margaret  tucks  her  mother  into  bed, 
she  asks  her: 

"Are  you  comfortable,  dear?  Do  you 
really  think  you  would  be  much  more  com- 
fortable in  heaven? " 

Or  sometimes  she  will  draw  aside  the 
window-curtains  and  say: 

"Look  at  the  stars,  mother 

Don't  you  think  we  get  the  best  view  of  them 
down  here?" 

So  it  is  that  Margaret  persuades  her 
mother  to  delay  her  journey  a  little  while. 


What's  In  a  Name 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME 

WHEN  Juliet  made  her  immortal  remark 
concerning  the  unimportance  of  names, 
she  was  very  evidently  labouring  under  great 
excitement ;  and  it  is  pertinent  to  remark  too 
that,  being  a  woman,  she  came  of  a  sex 
accustomed  from  time  immemorial  to  change 
its  name.  Besides,  in  spite  of  her  exclama- 
tion :  "  O  Romeo,  Romeo  —  wherefore  art 
thou  Romeo?"  it  is  clear  from  the  context 
that  she  was  really  thinking  of  her  lover's 
surname,  rather  than  his  Christian  name: 

"  Deny  thy  father  and  refuse  thy  name; 
Or,  if  thou  wilt  not,  be  but  sworn  my  love, 
And  I'll  no  longer  be  a  Capulet." 

In  fact,  like  any  woman  in  love,  she  had 
already  forgotten  her  own  surname,  and 
desired,  above  all  things  in  the  world,  to 
write  her  name,  and  work  it  in  stitchery  as : 
Juliet  Montague.  There  is  little  doubt  that 


1 76    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

in  the  seclusion  of  her  chamber,  she  had 
already  dipped  her  seldom-used  quill  into 
her  ink-horn,  and  written  it  over  thus  many 
times : 

Juliet  Montague 
Juliet  Montague 
Juliet  Montague 


And,  if  I  be  wrong  in  this,  of  this  I  am  quite 
sure  —  that  for  Romeo,  at  all  events,  there 
was  only  one  name  by  which  to  call  a  woman, 
the  name  of  Juliet.  Indeed,  I  would  venture 
almost  to  say  that  true  love  knows  its  affinity 
by  no  other  sign  so  surely  as  the  first  sound 
of  the  destined  name.  You  remember  how 
in  Paradise,  Rossetti  heard  the  lovers 

"  Saying  each  to  each 

Their  heart- remembered  names." 

"Their  souls  were  in  their  names!"  says 
George  Meredith,  when  Richard  cried  out  the 
name  of  "Lucy,"  and  Lucy  the  name  of 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  177 

"Richard."  Their  souls  —  and  their  in- 
exorable futures ! 

So  was  it  with  Dante  when  he  first  saw  her 
who  was  called  "  'Beatrice'  by  those  who 
knew  not  wherefore."  And  so,  I  believe, 
it  is  with  every  man  and  woman.  In  fact, 
I  should  hardly  count  it  a  fancy  if  it  were 
told  me  that  in  our  cradles  some  spirit  whis- 
pers into  the  still  sensitive  porcelain  of  our 
ears  the  name  to  which  our  lives  shall  answer 
as  to  the  master-word  of  some  dead  magician. 

We  do  not  know  the  name  —  till  we  hear 
it,  and,  meanwhile,  may  have  many  mis- 
taken fancies  about  it.  Some  beautiful  girl 
of  our  acquaintance  may  be  so  full  of  charm 
for  us  as  to  cause  us  so  to  fall  in  love  with 
her  that  we  imagine  hers  to  be  the  destined 
name.  But,  after  a  while  that  prescience  in 
our  ears  saves  us  from  the  illusion.  The  ear 
does  not  give  back  that  fairy  chime  when  we 
hear  her  name,  which  it  can  give  only  to  the 
sound  of  the  name  of  names.  Often  our  ears 
seem  on  the  point  of  vibrating,  as  a  woman 
tells  us  her  name  for  the  first  name,  but,  after 


178    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

all  —  it  was  a  false  alarm  of  beauty,  and  we 
still  go  on  seeking  for  the  sound  that  alone 
can  ring  true.  It  may  be  that,  in  despair  of 
ever  hearing  it,  we  content  ourselves  with 
another  name;  but  that  is  a  dangerous 
course,  for  one  never  knows  when  the  fairy 
name  may  be  spoken  in  our  ears,  calling  us 
irresistibly  to  follow. 

Thus  I  have  known  of  men  who  were  quite 
sure  that  their  fate-name  was  Ann,  tired  out 
with  waiting  to  hear  it,  marry  another  of  the 
name  of  Mary  —  and  then  on  their  honey- 
moon, at  last  hear  the  name  of  Ann  calling 
in  their  ears,  with  cruel  unpunctuality.  If 
only  Ann  had  appeared  and  spoken  her 
mystic  name  a  month  before  —  how  different 
all  would  have  been!  And  one  could  give 
others  examples  of  other  names  heard  too  late. 

One  of  the  strangest  stories  of  the  kind  is 
that  of  a  friend  of  mine,  which  I  propose  to 
tell.  From  a  mere  boy  the  name  of  Irene 
had  for  him  a  prophetic  beauty.  Whenever 
he  saw  a  beautiful  face  he  felt  certain  that 
the  only  name  worthy  of  it  must  be  —  Irene. 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  179 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  would  marry  no 
woman  whose  name  was  not  Irene,  and,  that 
if  a  little  girl-child  should  come  to  them  she 
must  be  called  Irene.  It  will  not  in  any  way 
spoil  my  story  to  say  that  he  is  long  since 
happily  married  to  a  wife  whose  name  is  — 
not  Irene,  and  that  his  offspring  consisting 
only  of  three  boys,  he  has  had  no  oppor- 
tunity to  make  use  of  his  name  beautiful. 
But  this  is  merely  a  parenthesis.  Long 
before  life  brought  him  to  these  conclusions, 
de  dreamed  of,  and  even  deliberately  sought, 
his  Irene.  Strange  as  it  may  sound  nowa- 
days, among  all  his  researches  he  never  came 
upon  a  girl  whose  name  was  Irene ;  nor  did 
any  gentle  accident  ever  bring  a  single  Irene 
into  his  orbit.  Every  other  woman's  name 
in  the  appendix  to  the  dictionary  he  seemed, 
at  one  time  or  another,  to  encounter  —  but 
Irene  never! 

You  can  hardly  wonder  that  this  negation 
of  Irenes  in  his  experience  tended  to  deepen 
his  original  superstition ;  and  make  him  more 
certain  than  ever  that  life  was  thus  sifting 


i8o    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

out  for  him  the  other  names  one  by  one,  till 
at  last  no  other  name  was  left  but  —  Irene. 

Meanwhile,  he  carried  ever  in  his  heart  a 
picture  of  what  the  girl  answering  to  the  name 
of  Irene  would  be  like.  The  name  to  him 
suggested  a  combination  of  tall  lithe  grace, 
exquisite  refinement,  blonde  hair  in  coiled 
masses  of  gold,  blue  eyes  domestically  kind, 
a  gift  for  arranging  flowers  —  and  a  hundred 
other  ideal  characteristics  which  may  best 
be  symbolised  by  an  Easter  lily. 

An  Easter  lily  —  with  a  light  upon  it 
seeming  to  fall  from  some  hidden  window  in 
heaven :  in  fact  a  creature  exquisitely  blended 
of  celestial  purity  and  skillful  house-wifery. 

How  much  more  the  name  Irene  meant  to 
him  I  need  not  say  —  because  I  cannot ;  for 
the  name  of  every  man's  love  is  as  we  have 
quoted  before,  as  that  of  Dante's  Beatrice. 
She  is  called  Jane  or  Elizabeth  or  Kate  —  or 
Irene  —  by  those  who  know  not  wherefore. 
Only  one  man  in  the  world  knows  why  Jane 
is  called  Jane,  only  one  man  knows  why 
Irene  is  called  Irene. 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  181 

The  least  superstitious  must  admit  it 
strange  that,  with  all  his  eager  listening  for 
his  predestined  name,  even,  one  might  say, 
with  all  his  experimental  pursuit  of  it,  he 

never  met  it  till  at  last Well,  I 

am  anticipating.  Being  a  man  of  leisure, 
he  visited  many  countries,  seeking  his  name ; 
there  was  not  a  country  of  Europe  in  which 
he  had  not  sought  it,  and  even  in  Asia  he 
had  pursued  it  like  a  rare  butterfly. 

Common  materialistic  friends  of  his  main- 
tained that  it  was  quite  a  common  name. 
"  If  it  be  so  common,"  he  said,  "  how  is  it  that 
in  all  my  wanderings  I  have  never  yet  met 
a  woman  with  that  name?" 

At  last  a  friend  suggested  that  he  had  not 
tried  America! 

"  America ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  America !  won- 
derful country  I  know  —  but  is  it  likely  that 
in  so  new  a  world,  a  world  so  busy  making  its 
own  beautiful  names,  that  I  shall  find  this 
rare  old  name  of  an  ancient  world?  Surely 
I  might  as  well  expect  to  dig  up  a  Roman 
coin  in  some  back  garden  in  Omaha!" 


i82    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"Never  mind!"  said  the  friend  of  my 
friend.  "  Try  America." 

So  it  was  that  my  friend  came  at  last  to 
America,  seeking  his  beautiful  name. 

Being  a  man  of  some  public  significance, 
he  was  asked,  upon  landing,  what  his  business 
was  in  The  Land  of  Promises;  and,  being  a 
man  of  simple  mind,  he  answered  that  he 
came  seeking  a  woman  of  the  name  of  — 
Irene.  The  assembled  reporters  shook  their 
heads,  and  looked  at  him,  as  though  he  was 
crazy.  No  such  name  had  ever  been  heard  of 
in  America.  Of  course,  he  was  crazy;  and 
so  the  papers  had  a  day's  fun  with  the 
eccentric  Englishman,  and  then  his  numerous 
excellent  introductions  started  him  upon  that 
most  generous  pilgrimage  in  the  world  —  the 
pilgrimage  of  the  American  Continent. 

His  introductions,  I  say,  were  excellent.  I 
wonder  if  that  was  the  reason  why,  though 
the  best  and  most  beautiful  homes  of  America 
were  thus  thrown  open  to  him,  visiting  here 
and  visiting  there,  he  never  once  heard  the 
name  he  was  journeying  to  hear. 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  183 

At  length  three  months  had  gone  by,  and 
no  name  remotely  resembling  the  name  he 
loved  had  sounded  in  his  ears.  He  was 
indeed  planning  to  sail  back  to  Europe  in  a 
few  days,  when  in  a  great  Western  tgwn  —  I 
may  as  well  say  Chicago  —  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  changed  his  intention. 

No  one  who  has  visited  America  can  fail 
to  have  been  struck  by  the  number  and 
quality  of  the  beautiful  homes,  so  generously 
thrown  open  to  him,  and  by  the  singular 
purity  of  atmosphere  which  pervades  them; 
a  purity  so  entirely  free  from  priggishness  — 
no  negative  purity,  but  a  purity  which  one 
might  call  elemental,  a  purity,  so  to  say,  of 
joyous  power,  a  purity  as  full  of  laughter  and 
strength  as  a  racing  upland  breeze.  One  has 
sometimes  heard  that  there  is  no  American 
home.  To  one  sojourner  in  America  at 
least  this  means  the  strangest  of  misrepresen- 
tations; for,  on  the  contrary,  one  might 
almost  go  so  far  as  to  say  that  in  no  other 
country  in  the  world  is  there  such  a  genuine 
home-life  as  in  America.  And  I  venture 


1 84    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

to  think  that  in  no  American  city  is  this 
home-life  to  be  found  in  fairer  development 
than  in  Chicago.  In  such  a  home,  one  never- 
to-be-forgotten  evening,  my  friend  found 
himself  a  guest.  Those  who  talk  of  American 
bad  taste,  of  American  ignorance  of,  or  dis- 
regard for,  the  beautiful  things  of  life  should 
be  taken  to  see  that  home.  The  gracious 
order  of  it,  the  unobtrusive  richness,  the 
organic  beauty  of  it,  as  distinct  from  a  con- 
scious sestheticism,  immediately  impressed 
a  nature  very  sensitive  to  such  conditions; 
and  the  moment  my  friend  met  the  only 
daughter  of  the  household  he  knew  at  once 
from  whom  all  this  harmony  proceeded.  His 
host  and  hostess  were  charming  simple 
people,  the  polo-playing  son-and-heir  was  a 
delightful  fellow ;  but  it  was  evident  that  the 
harmony  did  not  proceed  from  them. 

No!  it  very  evidently  came  from  this  tall, 
lithe  girl,  with  that  heavy  crown  of  gold 
upon  her  head,  those  kind  blue  domestic 
eyes,  and  that  supernal  light  upon  her 
exquisitely  blonde  features.  As  my  friend 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  185 

looked  at  her,  sitting  by  her  side  at  the  dinner- 
table,  he  felt  that  here  at  last  was  the  woman 
he  had  been  seeking  so  long,  for,  in  every 
particular  she  answered  to  the  dream  of  his 
long-sought  Irene.  In  her  father's  intro- 
duction to  him,  however,  he  had  not  quite 
caught  her  name;  so  he  sat  through  dinner 
in  a  fever  of  attention,  hoping  every  moment 
to  hear  it  pronounced  again.  But  by  one 
of  those  exceptions  to  the  usual  which  do 
occur,  no  occasion  for  the  direct  use  of  her 
name  occurred  throughout  the  dinner,  and 
he  being  as  yet  so  new  an  acquaintance,  and 
afraid  besides  lest  he  should  hear  the  wrong 
name,  had  not  courage  to  ask  it.  However, 
after  dinner,  it  being  a  summer  night,  coffee 
was  served  on  the  veranda,  and  here  he 
found  both  his  courage  and  his  opportunity. 
There  was  a  sentimental  crescent  moon  in 
the  sky,  and  the  veranda  was  filled  with 
romantic  lights  and  shadows.  Miss  Stan- 
bery  and  my  friend  had  found  themselves  a 
little  away  from  the  rest.  She  had  seemed 
hardly  less  drawn  to  him  than  he  to  her,  and 


186    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

at  last  he  felt  that,  without  violating  tHe 
proprieties  of  a  guest,  he  might  ask  her 
Christian  name. 

She  bent  her  beautiful  head,  with  a  lovely 
shyness,  and  answered  that  her  name  was  — 

"Ireen." 

"Ireen?"  said  my  friend,  leaning  toward 
her  beauty  in  the  twilight. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  name." 

To  himself  he  was  saying  how  strangely 
like,  and  yet  how  strangely  unlike,  it  was  to 
the  name  of  which  she  seemed  the  ideal 
embodiment. 

"Ireen,"  he  said  over  to  himself,  and  the 
drums  of  his  ears  almost  chimed  back  — 
but  alas!  failed  quite  to  chime. 

"Ireen?  Ireen?"  he  said  over  and  over 
to  himself,  trying  to  make  the  name  sound 
right,  and,  when  he  found  it  impossible,  he 
looked  again  at  her  young  loveliness,  and 
wondered  to  himself  if  her  name  was  not 
near  enough  to  the  name  he  loved. 

But  in  the  end  his  superstition  prevailed, 
and  reluctantly  he  bade  good-bye  to  Ireen 


WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME  187 

Stanbery,  and  took  train  for  New  York, 
and  boarded  his  liner,  and  sailed  back  to 
Europe  sad  at  heart. 

A  year  went  by,  and  having  given  up  all 
hopes  of  finding  his  Irene,  he  married,  as  I 

have  said,  a  lady  of  the  name  of ,  and 

was  very  happy  —  that  is  as  happy  as  a  man 
or  woman  can  be  who  has  married  the 
wrong  name. 

He  had  been  married  about  three  years, 
when  he  chanced  one  evening  to  be  dining  in 
London  with  an  American  gentleman. 

They  compared  notes  on  America. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Stanberys  of  Chicago? " 
asked  my  friend,  among  other  questions. 

"O  yes '.aren't  they  delightful  people? 
And  what  a  beautiful  girl  Irene  is  —  she  was 
married  six  months  ago  by  the  way." 

"What  name  did  you  call  her?"  asked  my 
friend. 

"Irene." 

"Irene!  Why  I  thought  they  called  her 
Ireen!" 

"  So  they  do  —  but  did  n't  you  know  that 


i88    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

that  is  the  American  way  of  pronouncing 
Irene'?" 

"Indeed,  I  didn't,"  gasped  my  friend, 
and  in  his  soul  he  said  "  O  that  I  had  known ! " 

The  moral  of  which  is  that  it  is  very  hard 
to  lose  one's  love  through  a  mispronunciation. 


Revisiting  the  Glimpses  of  the  Moon 


REVISITING  THE  GLIMPSES 
OF  THE  MOON 

SID  NORTON  could  not  recall  a  time  when 
he  had  not  been  in  love.  From  his 
earliest  boyhood,  falling  in  love  had  been  a 
habit  with  him;  and  his  heart,  if  he  might 
be  said  to  retain  possession  of  an  organ  that 
was  always  being  lost  to  some  new  face,  was  a 
sort  of  sentimental  graveyard,  a  veritable 
necropolis  of  dead  love-affairs  —  dead,  but 
unforgotten ;  for,  incorrigible  lover  as  Sid  was, 
his  memory  would  sometimes  go  flitting  from 
grave  to  grave,  like  a  butterfly,  philandering 
even  with  the  past. 

In  spite  of  these  excursions,  and  in  de- 
fiance of  the  apparent  paradox  of  the  state- 
ment, Sid  Norton  found  himself  in  love  — 
for  the  first  and  last  time.  This  he  said  of 
himself  gravely,  not  only  in  private  to  the 
lady  who  was  credited  with  this  marvel  but  - 
191 


192    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

also  in  public  to  his  intimate  friends.  He  said 
it,  and  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  meant  it. 

Now  Rosamund  Lowther  was  an  exceeding- 
ly clever  young  woman,  an  adept  in  the 
management  of  the  emotional  male,  and 
easily  Sid  Norton's  match  in  experienced 
flirtation.  The  friends  of  both  watched  the 
progress  of  their  sudden  volcanic  attachment 
with  cynical  expectancy,  and  when,  after 
six  months  of  a  trance-like  courtship,  during 
which  it  might  be  said  that  the  infatuated 
pair  had  never  taken  their  eyes  off  each 
other,  Sid  Norton  suddenly  sailed  for  Europe, 
you  can  imagine  the  sensation  and  comment 
it  caused.  Neither  vouchsafed  any  explana- 
tion; their  engagement  remained  intact,  at 
all  events  there  was  no  formal  bulletin  to  the 
contrary ;  and  the  thing  was  a  piquant  mys- 
tery to  all  but  the  two  concerned.  For  them 
it  was  their  whimsical  secret. 

One  late  summer  afternoon  a  week  or  two 
before,  the  two  enamoured  ones  had  been 
seated  side  by  side  in  the  old  orchard  of  the 
Lowther  country  home.  Both  were  very 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON    193 

evidently  happy,  but  Sid's  face  was  absolutely 
idiotic  with  bliss.  The  something  so  "utter" 
in  Sid's  look  touched  Rosamund's  elfish  sense 
of  humour,  and,  though  she  was  just  as  much 
in  love  herself,  she  could  not  refrain  from  a 
gay  little  teasing  laugh. 

"Is  he  so  happy,  little  boy?"  she  said, 
lifting  up  his  chin,  and  looking  whimsically 
into  his  face. 

Sid's  answer  was  silent  and  long,  and  when 
it  was  ended,  Rosamund  continued,  holding 
his  face  at  arm's  length,  and  looking  into  it 
with  quizzical  seriousness. 

"  But,  are  n't  you  just  a  little  frightened 
sometimes?" 

"Frightened?" 

"  Yes !  when  you  think  that — it 's  for  life! ' ' 

"Ah!  thank  God,"  answered  Sid  rap- 
turously. 

"  No,  but  think  —  for  life!  No  more  pretty 
flirtations,  no  more  butterfly  by-paths  — 
only  me  —  me  —  till  the  end.  Be  honest  — 
does  n't  that  make  cold  shivers  run  up  and 
down  your  back? " 


194    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

"You  angel,"  exclaimed  the  abject  one, 
attempting  to  answer  her  as  before. 

"  No,  no ;  listen  to  me.  I  am  serious.  Do 
you  realise  that  you  are  in  a  cage,  my  cage, 
for  life  —  that  escape  is  impossible  —  that 
it  will  be  in  vain  to  beat  on  the  bars  —  that 
only  I  have  the  key  —  that  you  are  there  for 
better  or  for  worse  —  that  you  are  there,  I 
repeat,  for  life  —  that  there  is  no  help  for  it 
—nothing  to  do  but  make  the  best  of  it— 
do  you  realise  that?" 

The  sense  of  certitude,  of  absolute  posses- 
sion, which  Rosamund,  comedian  as  she  was, 
infused  into  her  voice,  was  irresistible,  and 
Sid  laughed,  laughed  for  joy  that  the  girl  he 
loved  had  such  attractive  brains  as  well. 

"What  a  delightful  fancy!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Fancy,  do  you  call  it?  Try  and  escape, 
my  boy,  and  you  will  see  how  much  of  a 
fancy  it  is." 

"  Divine,  adorable  fact,  of  course,  I  mean. 

0  Rosamund,  how  glad  I  am  that  it  is  true. 
Let  us  take  the  key  and  throw  it  into  the  river. 

1  never  want  to  be  free  again  as  long  as  I  live ! ' ' 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   195 

"No  use  if  you  did!"  with  a  saucy  toss  of 
the  confident  little  head. 

"My  poor  boy,"  she  went  on  presently,  in 
a  caressing  motherly  tone,  "I  really  can't 
help  being  rather  sorry  for  you,  you  who 
have  been  so  used  to  your  freedom ;  you  such 
a  wicked,  wicked  wanderer.  How  will  you 
ever  endure  it?  Tell  me  the  truth  now  — 
man  to  man,  as  they  say  —  right  at  the  bot- 
tom of  your  heart,  are  n't  you  just  a  tiny  bit 
wistful  sometimes  for  the  old  freedom?" 

"Never,"  answered  Sid,  with  portentous 
sincerity. 

"Never!  Quite  sure?  Don't  you  ever  feel 
a  little  homesick  for  some  one  of  your  old 
loves,  and  wonder  what  it  would  be  like  to 
see  her  again?" 

Sid  shook  his  head  with  emphasis. 

Rosamund,  and  for  that  matter,  all  Sid's 
world,  was  well  acquainted  with  the  main 
lines  of  his  amatorious  history,  and  knew 
something  of  the  various  divinities  who  had 
figured  in  it.  Besides,  Sid,  a  promising  young 
lawyer,  with  known  literary  leanings,  had 


196    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

put  his  heart  on  record  beyond  withdrawal  by 
the  publication  of  a  volume  of  verse  entitled 
"The  Nine  Muses."  The  volume  consisted 
of  love-verses  addressed  to  various  ladies  to 
whom  Sid  had  from  time  to  time,  or  simul- 
taneously, been  devoted;  and  though,  of 
course,  they  figured  under  fanciful  names, 
their  identities  were  no  secret  to  the  learned 
gossips  of  Sid's  circle.  This  book  had  been  a 
thorn  in  Sid's  side  since  he  had  met  and  loved 
Rosamund,  a  thorn  which  she  sometimes 
amused  herself  by  using  to  his  discomfiture. 
She  had  the  volume  with  her  this  afternoon, 
and  as  she  turned  to  it,  with  malicious 
merriment  in  her  eye,  Sid  knew  that  she 
meditated  some  of  her  merciless  raillery. 

"I  do  wish,  Rosamund,  you  would  let 
me  forget  that  wretched  book.  I  wish 
it  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  I  '11 
have  the  whole  edition  destroyed.  I  will, 
to-morrow " 

"O  that  would  be  sacrilege!"  interrupted 
Rosamund,  mockingly;  "besides,  I  should 
still  have  my  copy." 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   197 

"  I  will  manage  to  get  it  from  you,"  retorted 
Sid,  making  a  clutch  at  his  printed  past. 

"Even  if  you  should,"  answered  Rosa- 
mund, retaining  possession  of  the  book,  "I 
should  still  remember  some  of  the  poems  by 

heart.  They  are  so  beautiful 

This,  for  instance,  to  'Myrtilla'  .  .  .  ." 

"Do  be  quiet,  Rosamund " 

"  No,  I  insist,  ....  I  don't  think  you 
know  how  beautiful  they  are  yourself.  Listen : 

I  know  a  little  starlit  spring — 

Last  night  I  leaned  upon  the  brink, 

And  to  the  dimpled  surface  pressed 
My  hallowed  lips  to  drink. 

And  now  the  sun  is  up,  and  I 

Am  with  a  dream  athirst; 
O  was  it  good  to  drink  that  spring, 

Or  was  the  spring  accurst? 

Accurst,  that  he  who  drinks  therein 

Shall  long,  even  as  I, 
To  drink  again,  yet  never  drink 

Again  until  he  die. 

"Truly  now,"  Rosamund  continued, 
"  does  n't  hearing  that  make  you  a  bit  thirsty 
again  for  your  little  starlit  spring?  It  is  not 


198    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

too  late.  I  am  sure  that  if  you  were  to  go 
back  to  her,  she  would  let  you  drink  all  you 

warn, I  happen  to  know  that 

she  isn't  married  yet?" 

Sid  sat  dumb  under  the  raillery,  with  set, 
gloomy  face.  Turning  over  a  page  or  two, 
Rosamund  began  again. 

"Here  is  one  of  my  favourites,"  she  said, 
ignoring  Sid's  silence.  "  It  is  to  Meriel : 

Was  there  a  moon  in  the  sky, 
Was  there  a  wind  in  the  tree, 

I  only  remember  that  you  and  I 
Sat  somewhere  with  you  and  me. 

I  only  remember  the  joy — the  joy  — 
And  the  ache  of  going  away: 

O  little  girl,  here  's  a  little  boy 
Will  love  you  till  Judgment  Day." 

As  she  finished  reading  this,  Rosamund 
let  the  book  close  in  her  lap,  and  her  mood 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  changed  to  a 
thoughtful  seriousness.  She  repeated,  as  if 
to  .herself ,  the  last  two  lines. 

"O  little  girl,  here  's  a  little  boy 

Will  love  you  till  Judgment  Day — " 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON    199 

she  said  over  slowly,  as  though  weighing  every 
word;  and  there  was  something  in  her  voice 
that  might  have  suggested  that  in  playfully 
pressing  this  thorn  into  Sid's  side,  she  had 
unexpectedly  pricked  herself.  Sid  sat  on  in 
the  same  attitude  of  patient  gloom.  Presently, 
observing  her  silence,  he  turned  to  her. 

"Are  you  finished?"  he  said. 

"Yes!"  she  answered.  "Yes!"  with  a 
certain  aloofness  in  her  voice,  which  Sid, 
with  the  painful  sensitiveness  of  a  lover,  did 
not  miss. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter? "  he  asked. 

"No,"  she  answered,  speaking  slowly,  and 
with  the  same  serious  quietness  of  tone,  as 
though  she  were  thinking  hard.  "No!  but 
I  Ve  got  an  idea.  That  last  poem  has  set 
me  thinking " 

"Curse  the  poem,"  exclaimed  Sid  des- 
perately, seizing  hold  of  the  volume. 

"You  can  take  it,"  said  Rosamund,  to  his 
surprise,  "I  don't  think  I  want  to  see  it 
again  either." 

"But  surely,  you  are  not  allowing  it  to 


200    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

trouble  you.  It  is  all  past  and  gone,  and  one 
cannot  have  reached  thirty  without  some 

experiences.     Even  you,  dear " 

"  O  yes,  I  know,  but  there 's  a  peculiarly 
deep  ring  about  those  last  two  lines,  Sid  — 

O  little  girl,  here's  a  little  boy 
Will  love  you  till  Judgment  day  — 

whatever  you  may  say,  you  meant  them 
pretty  badly,  Sid,"  she  added,  turning  upon 
him  eyes  whose  recent  mirth  was  replaced  by 
a  questioning  gravity. 

1  'Of  course  I  meant  them  at  the  time,  or 
thought  I  meant  them.  Besides,  poetry 
always  exaggerates,"  answered  Sid,  writhing 
with  explanation. 

"No,  Sid,  don't  belittle  your  old  feelings. 
That  doesn't  help.  Rather  the  reverse," 
and  then  once  more  she  repeated  the  lines 
musingly  as  if  to  herself.  Then  she  turned 
to  Sid  with  a  sudden  decision  of  manner,  as 
if  her  mind  was  made  up. 

"  Sid,  that  was  a  very  deep  feeling.  How 
do  you  know  that  it  is  not  still  alive? " 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   201 

Sid  made  the  usual  despairing  protesta- 
tions. Rosamund  regarded  them  but  little. 

"I  wonder,"  she  continued,  "if  you  really 
know  your  own  mind.  I  wonder.  You 
think  you  love  me  now,  but  then  you  thought 
you  loved  her  then  —  till  Judgment  Day. 
Sid!  Now  see,  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  my 
idea " 

Sid  looked  at  her  expectantly,  waiting  with 
anxious  eyes.  Then,  with  something  of  a 
return  to  her  gayer  manner,  she  went  on : 

"  You  remember  what  we  were  saying  just 
now  about  your  cage.  Well,  I  'm  going  to 
let  you  out  for  a  month  or  two." 

She  waved  aside  a  remonstrant  ejaculation 
from  Sid. 

"  Yes!  and  you  are  to  spend  the  last  breath 
of  freedom  in  finding  out  if  there  is  still  any 
truth  left  in  these  old  impassioned  statements. 
That  is,  you  will  go  to  Myrtilla,  and  see  if 
you  still  want  to  drink  of  that  'little  starlit 
spring,'  and  you  will  go  to  Meriel  and  see, 
well  ....  about  Judgment  Day!  And, 
while  you  are  on  pilgrimage,  there  are  one  or 


202    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

two  other  'muses'  it  might  be  well  to  make 
quite  sure  about." 

Sid  interrupted  with  impatient  incredulity, 
not  believing  her  serious.  But  the  more  he 
expostulated,  the  firmer  she  became. 

"I  declare,  the  idea  grows  on  me!"  she 
said.  "I  wonder  it  never  occurred  to  me 
before.  Now  that  it  has,  I  must  insist  on 
your  carrying  it  out  —  for  my  sake.  When 
I  think  of  your  nature,  in  the  light  of  all  this 
printed  experience,  I  should  not  really  feel 
safe  otherwise.  Of  course,  your  cage  is 
strong,  I  know.  So  long  as  I  care  to  keep 
the  key,  your  escape  is  impossible.  But 
then,  I  should  not  like  to  find  some  day  in  the 
future,  that,  secure  as  you  were,  you  were  in 
secret  pining  to  be  off  after  some  little 
starlit  spring  on  the  other  side  of  the  bars. 
So,  Sid,  I  'm  sorry,  but  you  must  pack  up  right 
away,  and  go  on  pilgrimage." 

In  vain  Sid  protested  that  it  was  pre- 
posterous, that  he  was  incapable  of  seriously 
undertaking  any  such  fanciful  absurdity. 
Rosamund  remained  obdurate.  She  would 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   203 

never  marry  him,  she  said,  till  he  had  sub- 
jected himself  to  the  proposed  ordeal. 

"Besides,  if  you  refuse,"  she  continued, 
"  I  shall  always  feel  that  you  were  afraid  of  it, 
secretly  afraid  that  the  temptations  of  it 
would  be  too  strong  for  your  faith." 

To  this  Sid  made  a  singularly  blundering 
retort,  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  take  back 
as  he  uttered  it,  to  the  effect  that,  however 
certain  one  was  of  one's  love,  there  was  no 
sense  in  playing  with  fire.  This  settled  the 
matter. 

"Fire!"  laughed  Rosamund  mercilessly 
—  he  admitted  the  danger  then! 

After  that  there  was  no  argument  —  and 
this  is  the  explanation  of  Sid  Norton's  sud- 
den departure  for  Europe. 

Say  what  you  will,  the  test  was  a  little 
unfair.  So  Sid  Norton  said  to  himself,  as 
he  paced  the  moonlit  deck  in  mid-ocean,  and 
strove  to  analyse  his  feelings  toward  the 
situation  in  which  Rosamund's  whim  had 
placed  him.  He  thought  of  the  lady  of  old 


204    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

time  who  had  thrown  her  glove  into  the  arena. 
Of  course,  no  lover  could  decline  such  a  chal- 
lenge ....  but  he  hastily  dismissed 
the  image  as  unfortunate,  for  he  was  not  al- 
lowed to  admit  the  existence  of  the  lions. 
To  recognise  any  possibility  of  danger  in  his 
present  so-called  ordeal  was  in  itself  an  un- 
faithfulness. To  admit  that  there  was  any 
element  of  an  ordeal  in  his  fantastic  adven- 
ture was  to  fail  right  away.  To  confess  any 
temptation  in  the  circumstances  was  a  suffi- 
cient backsliding.  And  yet  would  any  man 
in  a  like  situation,  dealing  honestly  with  his 
own  thoughts,  declare  confidently  that  there 
was  no  danger  here  to  a  true  love?  The 
answer  of  theory  and  idealism  would  of  course 
be  that  there  could  evidently  be  none.  The 
words  "true  love"  imply  that,  and  a  certain 
old  writer  has  disparaged  "a  fugitive  and 
cloistered  virtue"  that  shrinks  from  taking 
the  open  field  against  temptation.  Which 
is  all  very  beautiful,  but  another  saying  as 
to  the  relation  of  discretion  to  valour  comes 
nearer  to  the  truth  of  a  human  nature,  which, 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON    205 

with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  is  apt  to  be 
sorely  tripped  up  in  the  very  moment  of  its 
strength  by  some  half -forgotten  weakness. 

Sid  Norton's  love  for  Rosamund  Lowther 
was  no  less  real  and  deep  than  he  deemed  it. 
She  was  for  him  the  divine  event  toward 
which  his  whole  life  had  deviously  moved. 
To  lose  her  love  would  be  loss  irremediable. 
She  was  that  final  joy  and  enchantment  which 
he  had  pursued  from  face  to  face,  yet  found 
only  at  last  in  hers.  She  was  the  fairy  tale 
of  life  come  true.  He  had  no  wish,  no  hope, 
no  aim,  beyond  her.  With  his  meeting  her 
life  had  at  last  seriously  begun.  Its  future 
success  was  to  be  the  making  perfect  this 
love  which  she  had  brought  him.  This  was 
the  serious  truth  about  Sid  Norton;  it 
represented  the  serious  responsible  self  which 
had  at  length  asserted  its  domination  over 
the  warring  minor  selves  that  had  preceded 
it  —  the  self  he  seriously  wished  to  go  on 
being.  But  alas!  in  this  multiple  being 
called  man  those  minor  selves,  though  con- 
quered and  perhaps  mortally  wounded,  are 


206    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

apt  to  die  hard,  and  occasionally  one  of  them, 
in  a  last  dying  flash  of  vitality,  will  gain  the 
upper  hand,  and,  in  some  fleeting  but  fatal 
moment,  tragically  belie  the  self  that  is  real 
and  lasting.  Sid,  who  was  learned  in  his 
own  psychology,  knew  himself,  or  rather 
him-selves,  too  well  to  be  vaingloriously 
confident  that  no  such  disastrous  aberration 
on  the  part  of  one  or  other  of  his  dead  or 
dying  selves  might  not  in  some  unguarded 
moment  betray  him.  He  did  not,  of  course, 
seriously  fear  it,  and  it  seemed  impossible 
indeed,  as  out  there  on  the  midnight  ocean  he 
lifted  up  his  eyes  to  the  moon,  as  though  she 
were  the  silver  spirit  of  his  love. 

Still,  like  a  wise  soldier,  he  prayed  hard 
that  night  not  to  be  led  into  temptation. 

In  this  spirit  of  discreet  valour,  he  had,  on 
embarking,  after  making  a  survey  of  his 
fellow-passengers,  congratulated  himself  on 
the  singular  unseductiveness  of  the  array 
feminine.  As  in  the  days  of  Odysseus,  the 
siren  remains  one  of  the  most  dreaded  dangers 
of  those  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  and 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   207 

Sid's  previous  crossings  had  not  been  unevent- 
ful in  this  respect. 

On  coming  on  deck  rather  late  next  fore- 
noon, Sid  was  immediately  aware,  before  he 
traced  his  impression  to  its  cause,  of  a  subtle 
attractive  change  in  the  human  atmosphere 
—  just,  as  in  early  spring,  suddenly,  one 
morning,  we  come  out  into  the  air,  and  know, 
before  we  have  seen  them,  that  there  are 
flowers  in  the  garden.  So  poor  Sid's  terribly 
sensitive  instinct  warned  him  immediately 
of  the  unexpected  presence  of  a  beautiful 
woman.  Casting  his  eyes  along  the  prosaic 
line  of  deck  chair  mummies,  he  saw  that  his 
instinct  had  not  been  at  fault.  A  beautiful 
woman  had  blossomed  there  in  the  night. 
With  the  vividness  of  almond  stars  among 
the  bare  boughs,  she  shone  among  the  other 
passengers,  an  apparition  of  fragrance,  all 
dew  and  danger.  One  of  the  chairs  had  re- 
mained vacant  up  till  this  morning.  It  was 
the  chair  next  to  Sid's  own,  and  it  was  with 
a  quick  thrill  in  which  pleasure  was  quaintly 
blended  with  alarm,  that  he  realised  that  it 


208    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

was  in  this  chair  that  the  apparition  was 
sitting. 

"So  it  is,"  sighed  Sid,  with  an  inward 
smile,  "that  heaven  leads  us  not  into 
temptation." 

He  did  not  seat  himself  at  once,  but  walked 
the  deck  several  turns,  partly  to  reconnoitre 
the  fair  enemy,  and  partly  with  the  heroic 
resolve  of  seeking  out  the  deck  steward  and 
having  his  chair  removed  to  a  less  perilous 
position.  This  extreme  measure,  however, 
struck  him  as  both  eccentric  as  well  as  cow- 
ardly, and  the  reconnaissance  finally  decided 
the  matter.  After  all,  the  voyage  so  far  had 
been  dull  enough,  and  his  love  for  Rosamund 
surely  called  for  no  such  fanatical  self-denial. 

So  presently  he  found  himself  seated  by  the 
side  of  the  apparition,  pleasantly  enveloped 
in  a  delicate  exhalation  of  violets,  and 
luxuriously  conscious  of  the  proximity  of  a 
beautiful,  breathing  woman.  For  a  while 
the  first  conventional  reserves  protected 
him.  He  took  up  his  book  and  appeared 
absorbed  in  it.  She,  too,  was  reading.  One 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   209 

of  those  modern  novels  sufficiently  artistic 
and  emotionally  speculative  to  arouse  one's 
interest  in  the  personality  of  its  reader,  and 
to  afford  a  ready  freemasonry  of  communi- 
cation between  strangers  not  unwilling  to 
make  each  other's  acquaintance. 

After  a  brief  preoccupation  with  literature, 
both  readers  lost  interest  in  their  books  at 
the  same  moment,  and  both,  with  a  bored 
sigh,  allowed  them  to  decline  upon  their 
steamer-rug  knees,  with  an  artfully  syn- 
chronised sympathy.  Then  their  eyes  met, 
and  two  of  a  kind  recognised  each  other  and 
smiled.  Nature  had  created  them  fully 
equipped  flirts.  They  only  needed  to  look 
at  each  other  to  know  it;  and,  straightway, 
headlong,  with  the  good  excuse  of  marine 
ennui  upon  them,  they  followed  the  law  of 
their  natures  —  Sid,  however,  with  a  strong 
brake  on,  a  restraint,  which,  with  the  com- 
prehension of  sorceresses,  his  companion  felt 
and  interpreted,  and  inwardly  resolved  to 
overcome. 

"  Strange,  how  everything  is  a  bore  at  sea! 


210    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

even  the  most  interesting  book,"  said  the 
siren. 

"Even  the  sea,"  assented  Sid. 

"  Have  you  really  the  courage  to  say  that 
you  think  the  sea  ridiculously  overrated?" 

Sid  had. 

"I  love  courage,"  she  answered,  looking 
at  him  in  a  laughing,  challenging  way. 

"You  necessitate  it,"  was  the  answer, 
according  to  the  eternal  formula ;  and  so  the 
sea  began  to  be  less  of  a  bore,  and  continued 
being  less  and  less  so  each  succeeding  day, 
till  the  last  evening  of  the  voyage  had  come. 

They  were  nearing  the  sad  shores  of  the 
shamrock,  and  they  had  escaped  from  the 
after-dinner  promenade,  and  had  made  them- 
selves cosey  near  the  bow  of  the  ship,  in  some 
nook  of  windlass  and  sailing  tackle  close  to 
the  bulwark,  where  they  could  watch  the 
phosphorescent  spume  of  the  ship's  course, 
and  speak  of  it,  if  necessary. 

So  far,  though  not  entirely  satisfied  with 
himself,  Sid  had  combined  faithfulness  with 
flirtation  in  a  blending  so  adroit  that  the  ache 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON    2 1 1 

of  his  conscience  was  just  bearable ;  and,  he 
told  himself,  that  Rosamund,  of  all  women, 
would  be  the  last  to  withhold  her  admira- 
tion from  so  brilliant  a  feat  of  sentimental 
tight-rope  walking.  Any  student  of  the  ars 
amatoria  knows  how  fine  is  the  line  between 
faithfulness  and  unfaithfulness,  finer  far 
than  a  hair  from  the  beloved's  head;  and 
Sid  had  the  right  to  congratulate  himself 
with  his  deft-footed  adhesion  to  that  moon- 
beam of  a  path.  The  siren  was  too  expert 
herself  in  such  perilous  experiment  not  to 
have  observed  and  admired  Sid's  achieve- 
ment, and,  naturally,  she  was  piqued  by  it 
to  a  special  effort  of  conquest  this  last  even- 
ing. Not,  of  course,  that  she  really  cared  for 
Sid,  any  more  than  he  cared  for  her.  It  was 
merely  two  flirts  making  a  trial  of  strength, 
the  old  eternal  duel  between  man  and  woman ; 
but,  for  once,  the  man  had  most  to  lose  — 
and  that  Sid  kept  reiterating  to  himself:  for 
this  momentary  diversion  he  might  lose 
Rosamund,  lose  his  whole  life,  and  the  mean- 
ing of  it  —  for  this! 


212    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

The  siren,  who  had  not  known  him  for  three 
days  without  knowing  all  about  him,  esti- 
mated accurately  with  what  she  had  to 
contend.  For  the  woman  flirt  there  is  no 
incentive  like  —  Another  Woman !  It  was  not 
this  quite  attractive  man  whose  scalp  she 
was  after.  It  was  the  woman  to  whom  he 
was  so  ridiculously  constant  that  she  burned 
to  humiliate. 

Strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the  way. 
I  said  that  the  line  is  fine,  and  often,  to 
sincere  observers,  the  adherence  to  it  has  a 
somewhat  technical  value.  Was  it  casuistry 
or  simplicity  in  Sid  that  made  him  feel  that 
his  faith  was  still  intact  so  long  as  he  had  not 
actually  —  kissed  the  siren?  We  live  in  a 
legal,  concrete  world,  a  world  that  judges  us 
by  our  definite  completed  actions  rather 
than  by  our  feelings,  or  our  cunningly  re- 
stricted evasions  of  the  penalty.  A  kiss  — 
whatever  the  motive  —  is  a  concrete  decisive 
act.  A  kiss  is  evidence.  The  desire  to 
kiss,  however  powerful,  is  not.  Now  Sid  had 
not  yet  kissed  the  siren.  According  to  any 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   213 

external  tribunal,  Sid  was  still  faithful  to  his 
Rosamund. 

This  unkissed  kiss,  so  to  say,  was  the  key 
of  the  castle;  at  all  events  from  the  siren's 
point  of  view.  Sid's  heart,  to  tell  the  truth, 
ached  with  a  sincerer  standard;  but,  at  all 
events,  be  its  value  what  it  might,  this  un- 
kissed kiss  was  the  redoubt  on  which  he  had 
hoisted  his  colours,  to  fly  or  fall.  And  it  was 
to  be  no  easy  fight,  he  realised,  as  the  siren 
nestled  herself  into  a  comfortable  position 
in  that  sheltered  nook  of  windlass  and  sailing- 
tackle,  and  phosphorescence  and  gold-dust 
stars,  and  the  importunate  surge  of  the  sea. 

He  braced  himself  with  the  thought  of 
Rosamund  as  with  a  prayer.  He  crossed 
himself  with  the  remembrance  of  his  last 
look  as  they  had  parted.  It  may  sound 
laughable  that  anyone  should  arm  himself  so 
cap-a-pie  against  a  kiss,  yet  the  stakes  in  any 
contest  are  represented  by  some  apparently 
trivial  symbol.  A  kiss  was  the  symbol  here ; 
and  the  siren,  at  all  events,  did  not  under- 
rate its  symbolic  value.  She  fought  for  it  as 


2 14    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

though  it  had  been  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
Honour,  fought  with  all  the  delicate  skill  of 
an  artist,  and  she  laughed  softly  now  and 
again  as  she  came,  near  winning,  winning  — 
the  kiss  that  belonged  to  another  woman. 

She  was  terribly  beautiful  was  the  siren, 
terribly  everything  that  a  seductive  woman 
can  be.  The  atmosphere  about  her  was  a 
dreamy  whirlpool,  of  which  the  vortex  was 
her  lips,  and  Sid  felt  himself  being  drawn 
closer  and  closer  to  that  vortex.  How  he 
longed  to  throw  up  his  arms  and  drown  — 
but,  instead,  suddenly,  brusquely,  rudely, 
he  sprang  up. 

"I  won't,"  he  cried  abruptly,  and  left  her. 

It  was  not  gracefully  done,  but  it  was  the 
only  way  he  could  do  it.  Victories  are 
seldom  graceful.  In  the  thick  of  battle  it  is 
occasionally  necessary  to  be  impolite.  Sud- 
denly Sid  had  seen,  as  it  were,  luridly  em- 
bodied the  moment  he  had  told  himself 
might  some  day  come  —  the  moment  of 
temptation.  Here  was  he  face  to  face  with 
it  at  last,  one  of  those  terrible  moments  of 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   215 

trial  which  divide  the  past  from  the  future, 
and  challenge  us  to  decide  then  and  there, 
once  and  for  all,  what  we  really  mean  about 
ourselves ;  one  of  those  moments  that  cannot 
be  postponed,  but  must  be  met  and  fought 
just  how  and  when  they  come;  and,  as  Sid 
realised  all  the  moment  meant,  those  per- 
fumed alluring  lips  so  dangerously  near  to 
his  filled  him  with  a  veritable  terror,  and  his 
heart  almost  stopped  beating  with  dread  of 
succumbing.  Poor  Sid,  he  had  been  so 
accustomed  to  take  such  kisses  as  they  came 
with  a  light  heart ;  but  now  suddenly,  as  in  a 
lightning  flash,  he  seemed  to  see  the  meaning 
of  those  mysterious  standards  by  which 
the  faith  of  men  and  women  has  been  imme- 
morially  judged,  a  meaning  he  had  never 
suspected  before ;  and  he  saw,  too,  the  divine 
beauty  of  them;  and  the  vivid  revelations 
thus  made  to  him,  not  a  moment  too  soon, 
had  given  him  that  strength  to  cry  out  "I 
won't,"  and  tear  himself  away. 

As   with  a   burning  heart,   he  arraigned 
himself  before  himself  in  the  solitude  of  his 


2 16    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

stateroom,  it  seemed  at  first  that  his  victory 
had  been  but  a  poor  one,  a  victory  only  in 
name.  He  had  desired  to  kiss  the  siren  —  it 
was  impossible  to  deny  that;  and  surely  the 
very  wish  to  do  so  was  unfaithfulness;  and 
the  only  reason  that  had  restrained  him  — 
was  it  not  the  fear  of  losing  Rosamund?  No, 
it  was  more  than  that,  and  with  the  realisation 
that  it  was  really  more  than  that  —  a  real 
aspiration,  however  feeble,  toward  the  better 
way  of  loving,  a  repugnance  for  the  old  way, 
and  a  genuine  preference,  very  young  and 
tender  indeed  as  yet,  for  a  finer  ideal  —  he 
grew  a  little  comforted.  Yes,  it  had  been  a 
victory,  a  greater  one  than  it  had  seemed. 
He  had  not  really  wanted  to  kiss  the  siren, 
after  all,  in  spite  of  compromising  appear- 
ances —  not  really  deep  down.  It  was  only 
an  old  habit  of  the  surface  that  had  momen- 
tarily got  the  better  of  him!  And,  though 
it  may  sound  like  casuistry,  it  was  not  so. 
Poor  boy,  it  might  not  have  seemed  a  brilliant 
victory  to  the  looker-on.  But  flirtation  is  a 
habit  that  dies  hard,  and,  till  he  had  known 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   217 

Rosamund,  the  mere  idea  of  faithfulness  to  a 
woman  had  never  remotely  entered  into  his 
mind.  This  passage  with  the  siren,  however, 
had  proved  him  so  far  on  the  road  to  regenera- 
tion as  to  have  developed  an  actual  preference 
for  being  faithful!  He  was  himself  surprised 
at  the  feeling,  and  it  filled  him  with  a  certain 
awe,  made  him  almost  a  little  frightened, 
though  curiously  happy.  Did  he  really  love 
one  woman  like  that  at  last?  Just  one 
woman,  out  of  all  the  women  in  the  world? 
Yes,  just  one  woman.  It  was  a  wonderful 
feeling. 

The  temptation  of  the  siren  had  been  the 
gross  one  of  the  senses.  The  finer  and  subtler 
trial  had  yet  to  come.  Rosamund  had  so 
far  compromised  with  her  original  decree  as 
to  consent  to  limit  Sid's  ordeal  to  one  out  of 
his  nine  muses.  She  would  be  content,  she 
said,  with  his  seeing  Meriel,  she,  whom  you 
may  remember  he  was  to  love  till  Judgment 
Day;  for  Rosamund  was  right  in  thinking 
that,  of  all  Sid's  previous  feelings,  his  love 


2i 8    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

for  Meriel  had  been  most  serious.  Indeed,  it 
had  been  a  feeling  apart  from  all  others,  and 
it  had  always  shone  wistfully  in  Sid's  memory 
as  a  lost  sacred  thing  that  had  come  into  his 
life  too  early,  before  his  heart  had  been 
ready  for  it.  A  magic  gift  of  loving  it  had 
been,  but  he  had  taken  it  carelessly  with  the 
rest,  and  realised  all  it  had  been  only  when 
it  was  far  away.  He  recalled  looks  out  of 
Meriel's  eyes  which  told  him  long  after  that 
she  had  known  he  was  not  ready  for  the  love 
she  could  give  him,  and,  unconsciously,  the 
occasional  thought  of  this  old  shortcoming  of 
his  had  prepared  him  for  —  Rosamund,  of 
whom  Meriel  came  to  seem  in  his  mind  a 
beautiful  prophecy.  Thus  old  love  dies  that 
new  may  live,  or  rather  lives  on  in  giving  its 
life  to  the  new.  Certainly,  Sid  could  never 
have  loved  Rosamund  more  had  he  not  loved 
Meriel  so  much. 

Yet,  what  if  it  should  prove  that  Rosa- 
mund in  her  turn  had  only  been  developing 
him  toward  repossession  of  his  old  dream! 
Love  moves  in  a  mysterious  way.  How 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   219 

strange  if  this  interval  of  experience  had  been 
meant  to  bring  him  back,  at  last  worthy  of 
them,  to  Meriel's  arms  at  last.  He  could 
not  deny  that  his  love  for  Rosamund  had 
been  haunted  sometimes  by  moonlit  memories 
of  Meriel's  face,  though  he  could  with  equal 
truth  say  that  the  new  love  was  greater  than 
the  old  one,  because  of  its  inclusion  of  stable 
human  elements  which  his  fairy  dream  of 
Meriel  had  lacked.  Meriel  had  been  a  dream- 
woman,  but  hardly  a  human  woman;  but 
Rosamund  was  both.  Yet,  almost  without 
his  knowing  it,  there  had  been  lurking  in  the 
background  of  his  consciousness  a  vague 
curiosity  —  it  was  hardly  more  —  as  to  what 
it  would  seem  like  to  see  Meriel  again ;  what 
her  face  would  seem  like,  how  her  voice  would 
sound.  He  did  not  for  a  moment  fear  the 
result,  yet  he  sometimes  felt  that  he  would 
like  to  try  the  experiment;  but  all  these 
feelings  had  been  of  the  very  shadowiest, 
hardly  rippling  the  surface  of  consciousness; 
so  when  Rosamund  had  suddenly  made  her 
odd  proposal,  they  had  seemed  phantom 


220    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

nothings  indeed  compared  with  the  aching 
reality  of  a  month's  exile  from  her  side. 

All  that  had  been  Meriel  had  passed  into 
Sid's  love  for  Rosamund.  Meriel  herself 
could  only  be  a  ghost,  however  beautifully 
visible  and  audible,  a  fair  house  of  dreams 
from  which  the  dreams  had  departed.  Yet, 
for  all  that,  it  was  not  without  some  agitation 
that  Sid  found  himself  at  length  in  the  quaint 
little  seaside  town,  whence  a  ferryboat  would 
take  him  to  a  village  across  the  bay,  high 
over  which  Meriel  and  her  mother  lived, 
looking  over  the  sea.  Her  ghost  began  to 
grow  more  and  more  luminous  with  mem- 
ories, as  a  pale  moon  fills  with  silver  as  the 
night  deepens.  He  stood  on  the  deck  of  the 
little  boat,  and  as  it  drew  near  to  the  landing- 
place  he  could  see  clearly  on  the  hillside  the 
old  white  house  with  its  trellises  and  its 
terraced  gardens  descending  the  hill.  He 
could  see  plainly  the  little  bower  where  one 
summer  evening  they  had  sat  together,  and 
she  had  suddenly  put  her  hand  in  his  and 
said,  "My  life  is  in  your  hands." 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   221 

His  heart  beat  fast  as  his  memories  crowded 
in  upon  him,  and  it  made  him  almost  fright- 
ened to  think  that  in  a  few  short  moments  he 
would  really  be  looking  at  her  again.  He 
felt  as  though  he  were  about  to  see  someone 
who  had  been  dead  a  long  time,  and  had  come 
to  life  again  startlingly,  as  in  dreams.  Then 
there  suddenly  floated  over  the  water  from 
the  village  music  very  mournful  and  sweet, 
and  he  could  see  a  long  line  of  dark  figures 
moving  slowly  up  the  tortuous  village  street. 
At  the  first  strains  of  the  music  a  great  fore- 
boding had  swept  through  Sid's  heart.  What 
if  Meriel  were  dead,  and,  as  in  a  fairy  tale,  he 
had  come  to  meet  her  —  carried  through  the 
streets  to  the  tomb.  The  idea  pleased  his 
fancy,  with  its  picturesque  pathos;  but  no! 
that  music  was  not  -for  Meriel.  It  was  a 
soldier's  death  music,  yet  its  solemn  vale- 
dictory chords  seemed  to  Sid's  ears  to  be 
playing  the  requiem  of  a  great  passion,  fitly 
ushering  him  with  their  voluptuous  melan- 
choly to  the  grave  of  his  beautiful  love. 

He  took  his  way  thoughtfully  up  through 


222    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

the  climbing  village,  but  there  was  a  sub- 
dued excitement  in  his  face  which  Rosa- 
mund might  have  construed  as  an  undue 
eagerness  to  face  his  coming  ordeal.  At  last 
he  turned  the  well-known  corner  of  the  lane, 
and  there  was  the  house,  facing  the  aery 
infinite  of  the  sea.  How  poignantly  familiar 
it  all  was;  yet,  why  instantly  did  something 
tell  him,  something  blank  about  the  expres- 
sion of  the  very  windows,  that  —  Meriel  was 
not  there. 

Her  mother  met  him  as  he  turned  into  the 
garden,  but  Meriel  was  not  there.  She  had 
been  married  —  yesterday. 

That  is  what  the  music  had  meant. 

"So  'Judgment  Day'  is  married!"  said 
Rosamund,  when  Sid  had  once  more  returned 
to  his  cage  to  report  himself.  "It 's  too  bad 
of  her,"  she  continued,  "for  she  has  quite 
spoiled  my  little  plan.  My  test  has  been  no 
test  at  all." 

"It  was  all  I  needed,"  answered  Sid.  He 
was  thinking  of  the  siren,  about  whom,  like 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   223 

a  wise  lover,  he  had  kept  silence.  Too  much 
confession  is  a  dangerous  weakness,  and  we 
are  usually  the  best  judges  of  our  own  actions. 
The  siren  had  been  but  the  process  of  an 
experiment.  All  that  concerned  Rosamund 
was  the  result. 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  you,  Sid,  when 
you  heard  about  'Judgment  Day.1  I  'd  give 
anything  to  know  what  you  really  felt ;  but, 
of  course,  you  '11  never  tell  me." 

Sid  smiled,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Were  n't  you  disgusted  with  her  for  dar- 
ing to  do  it  without  your  consent?  The 
bare  idea  of  a  woman  who  had  loved  you 
daring  to  have  any  new  life  on  her  own 
account!  I  am  sure  you  had  pictured  her 
spending  her  days  looking  dreamily  over  the 
sea  —  waiting  for  your  return.  I  know  you 
had." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Sid  had,  and  his  feel- 
ings on  hearing  of  Meriel's  marriage  had  been 
exceedingly  mixed.  It  was  perhaps  as  well 
that  Rosamund  had  no  record  of  them. 

"  Won't  you  tell  me  what  you  really  felt  — 


224    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

just  for  fun?  You  can  be  honest,  I  shan't 
mind." 

But  Sid  was  too  wise  to  be  honest.  He 
knew  where  these  heart-to-heart  confessions, 
just  for  fun,  were  apt  to  lead. 

"  I  had  no  feelings.  My  one  thought  from 
beginning  to  end  was  to  get  back  to  my  cage 

—  and  never  go  out  of  it  again." 

"You  were  relieved  then?  You  had  been 
a  little  frightened,  eh?  Yes,  you  know  you 
had,  and  you  were  glad  to  be  let  off  the  ordeal 

—  now,  were  n't  you? " 

Sid  certainly  had  been,  but  he  steadily 
refused  to  be  drawn.  And  then  Rosamund 
suddenly  changed  her  tactics. 

"  But  you  have  n't  asked  anything  about 
me  during  your  retrospective  pilgrimage ! ' '  she 
said. 

"  You! "  exclaimed  Sid,  a  look  of  peculiarly 
masculine  surprise  coming  into  his  face. 

"O  yes,  me!  I  suppose  you  imagined 
me  during  your  absence  sitting  here,  d  la 
'Judgment  Day,'  docilely  awaiting  your 
return." 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   225 

"What  do  you  mean,  Rosamund?"  asked 
Sid,  anxiously. 

"I  mean  that  you  seem  to  forget  that  I, 
too,  had  made  previous  engagements  for 
Judgment  Day.  When  you  were  off  pil- 
grimaging in  the  past  —  what  was  to  hinder 
me  from  doing  the  same?" 

"O  Rosamund,  you  did  n't." 

"  Did  n't  I !  I  'd  often  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like  to  kiss  Jack  Meriden  again,  so 
your  being  away  on  your  own  affairs  gave 
me  a  good  opportunity." 

"You  kissed  him!"  exclaimed  Sid,  in  an- 
gry astonishment,  all  his  masculine  propri- 
etorship in  his  face. 

"Why  not!"  she  answered,  nodding  her 
head  affirmatively. 

"  You  —  kissed  —  him, ' '  Sid  repeated, 
grasping  her  wrists  fiercely. 

Rosamund  shook  herself  free,  with  mock- 
ing laughter. 

"Ah!  there  talks  the  man  —  the  lord  of 
creation.  The  man  is  to  be  allowed  to  go  off 
and  flirt  with  whom  he  pleases,  but  the 


226    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

woman,  O  no!  While  the  man  is  engaged 
in  these  pleasing  diversions,  she  must  sit  at 
home  faithfully  darning  his  socks.  No,  sir! 
I  did  kiss  Jack  Meriden,  and  it  was  a  very 
nice  kiss,  too." 

"  You  did,"  repeated  Sid  slowly,  in  an  an- 
guish of  jealousy. 

"You  must  remember,  Sid,"  she  answered 
mockingly,  "  what  a  serious  affair  it  was  be- 
tween us  —  quite  a  Judgment-Day  affair. 
Those  old  memories  die,  hard,  as  you,  of  all 
people,  should  know." 

"  I  only  know  that  you  —  kissed  —  Jack  — 
Meriden,"  repeated  Sid,  rising  to  his  feet; 
"and  that  I  am  going." 

He  strode  savagely  across  the  lawn,  mak- 
ing as  if  to  leave  the  garden.  Rosamund 
let  him  go  some  distance,  and  then  called 
him  back. 

"Why  should  I  come  back?"  he  asked, 
sulkily. 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,"  she  said 
in  a  caressing  voice. 

He  came  back  to  her  side,  and  stood  there. 


THE  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  MOON   227 

"Well,  what  is  it? "  he  asked  stiffly. 

"  You  must  sit  down.  I  can't  tell  you  that 
way." 

Sid  sat  down,  with  non-committal  aloof- 
ness. She  put  her  arm  around  his  rigid 
shoulders,  and  whispered. 

"You  are  the  greatest  goose  that  ever 
lived.  I  never  kissed  Jack  Meriden.  I  love 
you  —  not  as  a  man  loves,  but  as  a  woman 
loves." 

"I  love  you  the  same  way,"  answered  Sid, 
the  storm-clouds  suddenly  swept  from  his 
face,  "  there  is  only  one  way  of  —  loving.  The 
other  thing  needs  another  name." 

And,  with  that,  Rosamund  snapped  to  the 
door  of  his  cage  forever. 


Eva,  the  Woodland  and  I 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I 

WHENEVER  I  ought  to  be  working 
especially  hard  at  my  desk  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  woodland,  where  I  have  built  myself 
a  little  log  house  for  my  books,  and  my  pictures 
and  my  pen  —  because  the  household  down  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill  does  not  want  a  man  in- 
doors writing  all  day  when  there  are  all  kinds 
of  important  domestic  operations  afoot, 
which,  when  he  is  there,  have  to  be  done 
softly,  with  hushed  voices  and  muffled  tread, 
lest  the  serenity  of  the  great  brain  with  the 
pen  be  ruffled  —  whenever,  I  say,  I  ought 
to  be  working  especially  hard  up  there  in  the 
wood,  among  the  pines  and  the  bracken  and 
the  dancing  leaves  and  the  whistle  of  birds 
that  seem  to  call,  "What  a  sin  it  is  to  be 
working  on  such  a  day!"  there  often  comes 
a  tiny  figure  and  looks  in  at  the  window  with 
three-year-old  baby  eyes,  and  watches  the 
331 


23 2    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

mysterious  person  there  at  the  desk,  with, 
for  all  her  affected  innocent  look,  a  definite 
purpose  of  seduction  in  her  baby  heart.  I 
know  too  well  what  she  is  up  to.  It  is  a  day 
all  aromatic  sunshine,  and  she  wants  us  to 
play  truant  together,  hunting  butterflies  and 
wild  flowers,  instead  of  having  to  behave 
properly  with  nurse,  and  sitting  there  at  that 
stupid  desk. 

She  knows  perfectly  well  that  she  is  doing 
the  sweet  forbidden  thing,  for  her  mother 
has  impressed  upon  her  again  and  again, 
with  much  solemnity,  that  she  must  on  no 
account  interrupt  father  when  he  is  busy  — 
on  masterpieces.  Eva  has  always  listened 
with  an  air  of  enigmatic  innocence  on  her 
little  broad  indomitable  face.  Her  blue 
eyes  have  worn  a  look  of  what  I  might  call 
stubborn  obedience,  and  then  —  Well,  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  on  the  first  opportunity, 
when  nurse's  back  is  turned,  she  has  made 
off  as  fast  as  her  sturdy  little  legs  will  carry 
her,  up  among  the  secrecies  of  the  fern,  till 
at  last  she  has  arrived  at  my  window  —  a 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     233 

baby  Eve,  offering  me  the  wild  apple  of 
idleness  and  sunshine. 

I  pretend  not  to  see,  I  bow  my  head  more 
sternly  over  my  task  in  profound  absorption ; 
but  Eva  is  not  to  be  taken  in  by  such  cheap 
devices.  She  knows  that  she  has  only  to 
stand  long  enough  at  the  window  —  cleverly 
making  no  sign,  not  tapping  or  calling,  but 
just  silently  there  —  for  me  to  give  in,  and, 
throwing  down  my  pen,  catch  her  in  my  arms 
and  carry  her  up  to  the  gorse-lit  moorland 
that  spreads  its  boundless  horizon  at  the  top 
of  our  little  wood. 

The  sun  has  been  calling  me  all  day,  and 
the  leaves  have  been  whispering  invitations 
upon  the  pane ;  but  I  have  found  it  compara- 
tively easy  to  resist  them.  The  eternal 
temptation  of  the  birds  calling  and  calling 
me  away  I  have  steeled  my  heart  to  resist 
also.  But  Eva!  No,  I  cannot  resist  her. 
So,  after  a  sham  fight  of  a  few  moments,  she 
and  I  are  on  our  way  up  the  woods  as  fast  as 
we  can,  for  fear  nurse  or  mother  may  catch 
sight  of  us  before  we  really  escape. 


234    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

But  for  one  particular  day,  of  which  at  the 
moment  I  am  thinking,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot 
lay  the  blame  on  her.  No,  it  was  all  my 
fault.  I  believe  that  that  day  she  had  meant 
to  be  a  really  good  girl.  I  must  take  the 
blame  of  luring  her  from  her  arduous  duties 
with  her  dolls.  And  yet  I  cannot  blame 
myself  very  sincerely ;  for  the  forenoon  had 
been  so  full  of  sunshine  and  wafting  per- 
fume that  I  could  not  have  regarded  my- 
self as  a  human  being  had  I  stayed  at 
my  desk,  merely  writing,  while  the  sun 
was  shining  and  the  birds  singing  and  the 
wild-rose  opening  its  dewy  heart  to  the 
sky. 

Deliberately  I  had  decided  that  I  would 
not  work,  and  strolled  up  through  the  green, 
sun-ascending  perfumes  to  the  gorse  and 
heather  at  the  top  of  the  pine  wood.  As  I 
emerged  into  the  broad,  brooding  sunshine, 
a  swift  rustle  stirred  in  the  underbrush,  and 
a  zigzag  of  silver  flashed  away  from  my  feet, 
threshing  its  way,  with  sinuous,  sinister 
beauty,  to  shelter  in  an  old  bank  hard  by.  I 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     235 

had  disturbed  an  adder  taking  his  noonday 
sun  bath. 

Snakes  are  hardly  more  common  in  Eng- 
land than  they  are  said  to  be  in  the  island  of 
Saint  Patrick.  When  occasionally  surprised, 
they  startle  one  with  something  like  the  thrill 
of  an  apparition,  something  of  the  fear  and 
fascination  of  the  supernatural.  They  seem 
to  belong  to  the  beautiful  wicked  side  of 
nature,  that  at  once  repels  and  ensnares. 
Though  I  had  lived  much  in  the  country,  I 
had  not  previously  seen  three  snakes  in  my 
life;  so  this  fleeing,  flashing  adder  was  quite 
an  event  in  my  morning's  walk,  and  my  first 
thought  was :  If  only  Eva  were  here  to  see  it 
too! 

Presently  the  adder  himself  gave  me  my 
opportunity,  by  gliding  into  a  hole  in  the 
bank,  from  which  there  was  no  outlet  except 
by  the  way  he  had  entered.  I  could  see  him 
sitting  there  coiled  in  the  darkness,  with  his 
vicious  head  erect,  ready,  tiny  worm,  after 
all,  as  he  was,  to  fight  the  whole  big  world. 
He  sat  there  and  watched  me,  unmoving; 


236    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

and  then,  noticing  a  big  stone  that  lay  near, 
I  closed  with  it  the  door  of  his  little  cave, 
and  made  his  imprisonment  safe  with  earth. 
Then  I  went  down  the  wood  again  to  bring 
Eva.  I  caught  sight  of  her  through  the 
garden  hedge,  sitting  on  the  grass  playing 
with  alphabetical  bricks.  Nurse  sat  a  short 
way  off  sewing. 

Nurse  is  such  an  old  friend  of  ours  and  so 
clothed  with  vice-maternal  authority  that  I 
am  almost  as  much  afraid  of  her  in  regard  to 
Eva's  and  my  truancies  as  I  am  of  Eva's 
mother.  Men  rightly  enough,  by  natural 
law,  are  allowed  little  to  say  in  the  rearing  of 
their  own  babies,  and,  however  much  the 
master  of  the  house  you  may  deem  yourself, 
your  authority  stops  with  the  good  woman 
who  guards  your  child.  There  is  some- 
thing sacred  about  a  nurse  —  a  mother 
nurse,  I  mean ;  not  a  nursemaid  —  which  it 
would  be  profanity,  even  impertinence,  for 
a  mere  father  to  disregard.  When  the 
mother  is  not  there,  the  nurse  is  the  mother, 
and  her  word  is  law. 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     237 

Realising  this,  I  could  not  dare  openly  to 
cross  the  lawn  and  take  Eva  away  with  me, 
as  though  I  had  every  right  to  do  so.  Had 
I  dared  to  do  that,  I  should  have  been 
speedily  humiliated  by  that  mysterious  au- 
thority which  is  said  to  rock  the  cradle  and 
to  rule  the  world.  In  other  words,  nurse  and 
I  would  have  had  a  spirited  fight,  in  which 
I  would  have  been  speedily  worsted. 

Therefore,  I  lay  in  ambush  a  while  behind 
the  hedge  of  flowering  laurel,  wondering  how 
to  catch  Eva's  attention.  Presently  I  found 
a  simple  way.  Within  reach  of  my  hand 
grew  a  red  rose  bush,  weighted  with  fat, 
heavy  roses.  One  of  these  I  plucked,  and 
threw  it  with  a  dexterity  on  which  I  prided 
myself  right  into  Eva's  lap.  If  there  is  one 
thing  I  love  about  her,  it  is  the  calm  way 
she  takes  surprises.  She  looked  silently  at 
the  rose  a  moment,  then  with  her  strong, 
quiet  eyes  gazed  around  to  see  where  it  could 
have  come  from.  As  she  did  that,  I  gently 
shook  the  rose-bush.  She  watched  it  shaking 
a  moment,  and  then  caught  sight  of  me. 


238    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

Even  then  she  kept  her  presence  of  mind ;  but 
an  indefinable  twinkle  in  her  eyes,  moment- 
arily illuminating  her  little  imperturbable 
baby  face,  telegraphed  to  me  that  she  had 
understood. 

Fortunately  for  us,  nurse  was  not  only  deep 
in  her  sewing,  but  deep  in  some  old  memories, 
so  that  she  did  not  miss  Eva  till  we  were 
both  safe  together  on  the  woodland  side  of 
the  garden  hedge.  Once  safe  there,  we  made 
haste  to  cover  as  fast  as  possible,  and,  when 
we  had  reached  one  of  our  secret  hiding  places 
in  a  little  hollow  of  fern  surrounded  by 
birches,  I  set  Eva  down  and  told  her  to  wait 
there  and  play  with  the  sunbeams,  while  I 
ran  back  down  the  hill  for  something  which, 
it  had  just  occurred  to  me,  might  make  us  a 
little  more  fun  in  our  truancy.  This  was 
nothing  more  wonderful  than  a  wide-mouthed 
glass  jar,  once  poignant  with  pickles,  which 
surreptitiously  I  procured  from  the  cook  with 
fear  and  trembling,  and  the  purpose  of  which 
will  soon  appear.  Returning  up  the  wood, 
I  found  Eva  contemplating  the  red  rose  I  had 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     239 

thrown  to  her  with   a   quite  philosophical 
absorption. 

"Daddy,"  she  said,  "why  are  some  roses 
red  and  some  white?1' 

It  was  the  ancient  unanswerable  question 
of  the  mystery  of  colour.  Who  is  there  that 
has  answered  or  can  answer  it?  A  mother 
might  have  done  better,  but  what  could  a 
mere  father  do  but  temporise? 

"I  will  tell  you,  Eva,"  I  said,  "when  you 
can  tell  me  why  sister's  hair  is  black  and 
yours  is  golden." 

This  sibylline  answer,  I  was  relieved  to 
find,  made  a  profound  impression  upon  Eva, 
and  as  we  continued  up  the  wood  she  was 
evidently  pondering  it  in  the  unfathomable 
deeps  of  her  baby  brain.  Her  meditation, 
however,  soon  gave  place  to  curiosity  and 
questioning  about  everything  that  grew  or 
sang  or  moved  in  the  wood.  Every  child  is 
a  naturalist,  and  the  great  charm  of  natural- 
ists is  that  they  always  remain  children,  never 
losing  their  sense  of  wonder  at  the  little 
elusive  things  that  run  and  hop  and  chirp  in 


24o    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

the  grass,  or  float  flower-like  upon  the  air. 
The  naturalist  has  come  nearer  to  the  secret 
of  eternal  youth  —  which  is  mainly  eternal 
enthusiasm  —  than  any  poet,  and  he  who  at 
fifty  still  pursues  a  rare  species  with  unabated 
ardour  need  never  fear  old  age. 

I  can  make  no  pretense  of  being  a  learned 
naturalist,  and  the  names  of  many  a  bird  and 
flower  I  love  often  escape  me  —  as  one  often 
forgets  the  name  of  some  charming  acquain- 
tance, whom  none  the  less  one  is  delighted  to 
meet  again.  I  am  content  to  go  up  the  wood 
in  entire  ignorance  of  the  Latin  and  even 
English  names  of  the  various  presences  that 
fill  it  with  leafage  and  perfume  and  song ;  but 
Eva  is  of  a  different  temper.  She  is  an 
exact  scientist,  and  insists  on  knowing  the 
name  and  the  how  and  the  why  of  every  leaf 
and  flower  and  insect  that  crosses  our  path. 
She  even  expects  me  to  know  what  the  birds 
are  saying,  as  though  I  were  the  old  Virgilian 
Asylas,  who  talked  the  language  of  birds  as 
easily  as  some  old  scholar  can  read  Latin; 
or  Melapus ; 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     241 

With  love  exceeding  a  simple  love  of  the  things 
That  glide  in  grasses  and  rubble  of  woody 

wreck; 
Or  change  their  perch  on  a  beat  of  quivering 

wings 

From  branch  to  branch,  only  restful  to  pipe 
and  peck. 


When  I  am  a  little  indefinite  in  my  ex- 
planations, she  gives  me  a  look  which  makes 
me  tremble  for  her  continued  belief  in  my 
omniscience ;  and  so,  when  for  the  third  time 
she  asked  me  what  a  certain  bird  was  saying, 
I  felt  that  I  must  do  something  to  retain  her 
respect.  So  I  extemporised. 

"This  is  what  he  is  saying,"  I  answered: 
"  Be  quick  —  Be  quick  —  Be  quick  —  Quick! 
Be  quick!  ....  Sweet!  —  Sweet!  - 
Sweet!  ....  Sweet-i-ki!  —  Sweet-i-ki! 
—  Sweet-i-ki!  ....  Chuck-chuck!  — 
Twe-ey  —  Twe-ey  —  Twe-ey ! " 

This  translation  seemed  entirely  satis- 
factory to  Eva,  and  she  made  me  repeat  it 
several  times,  so  that  with  her  rapacious 
baby  memory  she  might  get  it  by  heart. 


242     DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

She  presently  disconcerted  me,  however,  by 

asking  me  to  tell  her  what  that  other  bird  on 

the  bough  there  was  saying. 

"It  does  n't  sound  the  same  as  the  other," 

she  said,  or  meant  in  more  babylike  words. 

(The  realism  of  baby  talk  I  am  obliged  to 
leave  to  greater  writers.) 

"It  means  just  the  same,  though,"  I  said. 
"  All  the  birds  are  saying  the  same  thing,  only 
they  say  it  in  different  languages." 

I  must  explain  that  Eva  has  been  some- 
what of  a  traveller,  and  realises  that  you  can 
ask  for  the  same  thing  in  English,  French,  or 
Italian.  Therefore,  the  explanation  seemed 
to  bring  her  some,  though  I  could  see  not 
entire,  conviction. 

However,  I  was  saved  further  embarrass- 
ment by  our  arriving  at  our  scene  of  opera- 
tions. Really  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
was  more  quietly  excited  as  we  stood  in  front 
of  the  bank  where  the  angry  little  prisoner 
churned  his  venom  in  the  darkness.  Eva, 
who  had  been  given  an  illustrated  natural 
history  for  a  present  the  Christmas  before, 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     243 

was  evidently  expecting  a  boa  constrictor  — 
that,  or  a  beautiful  serpent,  such  as  a  luridly 
pictured  Bible  sent  her  by  a  pious  aunt  had 
taught  her  to  associate  with  the  garden  of 
Eden. 

With  almost  as  much  caution  as  though 
Eva's  imaginations  were  likely  to  be  realised, 
and  some  winged  dragon  snorting  flame  was 
ready  to  leap  out  upon  us,  I  removed  the 
stone  and  peered  into  the  tiny  dungeon, 
Eva  standing  at  my  side,  her  blue  eyes  serious 
with  expectancy.  Yes,  my  prisoner  was 
still  there!  Apparently  he  had  not  moved 
since  I  had  shut  him  in,  and  his  small  wicked 
eyes  gleamed  at  me  with  concentrated  hate 
out  of  the  darkness.  He  showed  no  disposi- 
tion to  escape,  so  there  was  no  difficulty  in  my 
using  my  glass  pickle  jar,  as  I  had  proposed  to 
myself  when  I  stole  with  it  from  the  kitchen. 

Placing  its  broad  mouth  in  the  entrance  to 
the  little  cave,  I  banked  it  securely  round 
with  earth;  Eva,  meanwhile,  an  admiring, 
mystified  spectator.  Thus  the  adder  had 
no  choice  but  to  stay  where  he  was  or  to 


244    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

remove  into  the  glass  jar,  the  hospitality  of 
which,  however,  he  showed  no  disposition  to 
accept.  He  still  sat  on,  mystic,  unmoving, 
making  no  sign.  Eva  and1 1  watched  him  a 
long  while  in  silence,  and  then  at  length,  his 
immobility  growing  monotonous,  I  cut  a 
stout  twig  from  a  neighbouring  bush,  and, 
pushing  it  through  the  soft  earth  at  the  side 
of  the  jar,  poked  him  gently  with  it.  Even 
then  he  would  not  stir,  but  his  black  tongue 
went  in  and  out  of  his  tiny  jaws  like  black 
lightning.  There  was  something  quite  pa- 
thetic in  his  miniature  fury  at  this  indignity 
being  put  upon  him. 

"My!  but  he  is  cross!  Isn't  he,  Daddy?" 
exclaimed  Eva,  peering  with  me  at  the  angry 
little  creature.  Presently  he  moved  farther 
into  the  darkness,  away  from  the  tormenting 
twig,  but,  as  it  could  still  reach  him  there,  his 
patience  at  last  became  exhausted,  and  sud- 
denly he  had  uncoiled  himself  and  was  gliding, 
with  all  the  grace  of  his  evil  beauty,  into  the 
glass  jar. 

Eva  gave  a  little  scream  of  delight  and 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     245 

clapped  her  hands.  "O  isn't  he  pretty?" 
she  cried.  "Let  me  take  hold  of  him." 
Snakes  were  evidently  among  the  multitude 
of  things  of  which  Eva  knows  no  fear.  How- 
ever, as  Eva  is  not  Saint  Paul  —  though  in 
my  heart  I  had  a  feeling  that  her  courageous 
innocence  would  have  protected  her  —  I  had 
to  deny  her  that  indulgence ;  one  of  the  few 
I  ever  denied  her,  for  I  know  of  few  with 
which  she  is  not  strong  enough  to  be  intrusted 
—  though  that,  I  suppose,  is  a  father's  point 
of  view. 

As  we  went  down  the  wood  with  our  cap- 
tive securely  shut  in  his  glass  cage,  I  ex- 
plained to  Eva  why  it  was  just  as  well  not 
to  hold  snakes  in  your  hand,  and  when  we 
reached  my  log  hut  I  illustrated^ny  explana- 
tion by  the  old  familiar  method.  Cutting  a 
forked  stick  from  a  tree  hard  by,  I  set  the 
jar  down  on  the  grass,  and  when  the  adder, 
believing  that  freedom  had  come  at  last, 
began  to  glide  through  the  loophole  I  had 
made  for  him,  I  pinned  him  down  to  the  earth 
at  the  back  of  his  wicked  head.  In  vain 


246    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

he  lashed  his  body  like  a  silver  whip  with 
rage ;  and  while  I  thus  held  him  I  took  my 
penknife  and  forced  open  his  cruel  mouth, 
so  that  Eva  could  see  his  evil  forked  tongue. 
Then  we  let  him  go  back  into  his  bottle,  and 
dropped  green  leaves  down  to  him,  so  that 
he  might  feel  comfortable,  and  looked  about 
for  beetles  and  such  small  insects  as  we 
thought  might  appeal  to  his  appetite  and 
console  him  for  his  captivity.  But  these 
attentions  he  received  with  sullen  indif- 
ference. Whether  it  was  that  he  was  too 
angry  to  eat,  or  that  we  had  made  a  mistake 
in  his  diet,  our  limited  knowledge  of  natural 
history  did  not  enable  us  to  decide. 

Nor  were  we  left  much  more  time  to  con- 
sider ;  for,  suddenly  as  we  knelt  together  side 
by  side  on  the  grass,  our  eyes  intent  on  our 
captive,  and  the  alarmed  scrambling  of  the 
various  small  insects  tumbling  over  each 
other  to  get  out  of  his  way,  we  heard  a  voice 
behind  us. 

"Are  n't  you  ashamed  of  yourselves?"  the 
voice  said. 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     247 

Eva  and  I  looked  at  each  other.  It  was 
her  mother's  voice.  We  were  caught!  In 
our  hearts  we  were  not  in  the  least  ashamed ; 
but  we  bent  our  heads  in  mock  penitence, 
pretending  that  we  were  afraid  to  look 
up. 

"  Really  I  don't  know  which  is  the  biggest 
baby,"  the  voice  continued,  with  direct 
personal  application  to  myself. 

Then  Eva  and  I  took  courage  and  looked 
up  into  the  bluebell  eyes  above  us,  and  all 
three  of  us  broke  into  laughter. 

"It 's  all  very  well  to  laugh,"  said  Eva's 
mother,  with  a  sudden  affectation  of  severity, 
mindful  of  the  necessity  of  impressing  Eva, 
"but  this  is  a  very  demoralising  little  girl. 
Have  n't  I  told  you,  Eva,  that  you  were  not 
to  disturb  father  at  his  work?" 

Eva  was  a  brick  and  did  n't  give  me  away. 
She  kept  a  set  little  face  of  respectful  re- 
bellion, imperturbable,  unapologetic.  She 
was  n't  going  to  betray  me. 

"  Really  it  was  not  her  fault,"  I  said  shame- 
facedly; "it  was  all  mine.  Punish  me,  if 


248    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

you  must;  but  not  her."  And  then  we 
laughed  again. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  this  poor 
beast  here?"  asked  Eva's  mother,  pointing 
to  the  glass  jar.  "Let  him  go,  I  suppose," 
I  said. 

I  saw  Eva's  eyes  light  up  for  a  moment. 
There  was  just  one  last  bit  of  fun  left  before 
she  must  return  to  the  humdrum  of  the 
nursery. 

So  then  we  took  the  lid  from  the  jar,  and 
presently  the  adder,  sniffing  the  air,  stole 
cautiously  out  on  the  grass,  and  then  at 
length,  realising  that  he  was  really  at  liberty, 
flashed  his  way  from  our  sight  into  the  under- 
brush, with  the  joy  of  all  natural  things  at 
being  free  once  more  —  a  bird  released  from 
his  cage,  or  a  happy  fish  thrown  back  into 
the  stream.  The  beetles  and  the  various 
other  bugs  seemed  no  less  to  appreciate  their 
freedom. 

Alas!  it  was  poor  Eva's  turn  to  go  back 
into  captivity.  Mine  too,  for  my  desk 
gloomed  there  inside.  We  gave  each  other 


EVA,  THE  WOODLAND  AND  I     249 

a  parting  look,  as  her  mother  took  her  off 
down  the  wood.  So  two  exiles  condemned 
to  Siberia  might  exchange  glances  of  sym- 
pathy. But  all  the  same  we  had  had  a  good 
time,  and  we  both  knew  that,  in  spite  of  all 
law  and  authority,  we  intended  to  have  many 
more  up  there  in  the  woodland,  Eva  and  I. 


The  Dream  Documents 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS 

THE  dream  has  come  to  an  end,  and  I  have 
just  received  a  letter  asking  for  a  return 
of  the  dream  documents.  In  other  words, 
Miranda  has  written  asking  me  to  send  back 
her  letters.  She  is  going  to  be  married 
soon.  Incidentally,  so  am  I. 

Our  dream  came  to  an  end  quite  a  while 
ago.  But  it  was  a  very  long  and  beautiful 
dream  —  dreams  seldom  last  so  long  —  and 
I  did  hope  that  Miranda  would  allow  me  to 
keep  its  beautiful  records.  But  no!  I  have 
to  send  all  that  brilliant  writing  back  again ; 
all  the  fancy  and  wit  and  tenderness  which 
make  such  a  living  history  of  a  fairy  tale. 

Perhaps  Miranda  wants  to  read  the  fairy 
tale  over  again,  and  is  not  satisfied  with  my 
poor  records  of  it.  That  may  be  the  reason 
why  she  wants  those  letters  back.  It  can 
hardjy  be  any  common  reason,  such  as 
253 


254    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

actuates  common  lovers  when  they  make  a 
like  demand.  She  knows  how  I  reverence 
the  memory  of  our  dream,  and  I  think  she 
is  almost  as  proud  to  have  dreamed  it  as  I  am. 

We  are  not  bitter  or  jealous  toward  each 
other,  but,  on  the  contrary,  each  of  us  is 
glad  that  the  other  is  so  happy  with  — 
some  one  else.  Such  sorrow  as  remains  to 
us  is  the  abstract,  wistful  sorrow  which 
natures,  such  as  ours  —  and  O  Miranda, 
how  alike  we  were !  —  feel  at  the  passing  of 
any  beautiful  thing.  The  pathos  of  "  The 
grass  wither  eth,  the  flower  fadeth".  .  .  . 

Ah!  Miranda,  how  can  we  confidently 
complete  that  solemn  sentence,  when  so 
seemingly  everlasting  a  thing  as  our  love 
has  passed  away?  If  that  is  gone,  can  there 
really  be  anything  in  the  universe  that  en- 
dureth  forever! 

I  suppose  that  it  is  the  humiliated  sense 
of  this  transitoriness  of  what  had  seemed  an 
immortal  feeling  that  makes  men  and  women 
who  have  loved  and  lost  each  other,  as 
Miranda  and  I,  return  those  letters,  which 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS        255 

have  thus  come  to  seem  the  ludicrously 
earnest  records  of  an  illusion. 

The  two  people  feel  that  they  have  been 
tricked  into  these  solemn  utterances  of  the 
heart,  as  if  Life  had  been  playing  a  game 
with  them,  which  they,  unsuspecting,  had 
taken  seriously.  They  feel  a  little  silly,  as 
one  does  when  some  jocular  friend,  as  we 
say,  takes  us  in  with  some  mock-serious 
story.  We  sit,  attentive  and  eager,  while  he 
talks,  and  believe  every  word,  and  then 
suddenly  the  stealing  smile  upon  his  face 
tells  us  that  we  have  been  fooled.  So  we 
sit  and  listen  to  Love  telling  his  old  tale,  as 
if  he  had  never  told  it  before,  with  such  lit 
young  eyes  and  such  irresistible  persuasion ; 
and  then,  suddenly  —  there  comes  the  smile 
stealing  over  his  face,  and  we  look  at  each 
other  and  know  that  we  have  been  fooled. 

This  is  not  my  view  of  the  matter,  but  I 
conceive  that  it  is  the  view  of  those  who,  like 
Miranda,  wish  to  obliterate  the  records  of  an 
old  dream.  For  my  part,  the  fact  of  a  feeling 
passing  away  is  nothing  against  the  reality 


256    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

of  that  feeling.     All  feelings  must  sooner  or 
later  pass  away: 

The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the  hill 

Like  any  hill-flower,  and  the  noblest  troth 
Dies  here  to  dust      .... 

That  the  rose  must  shed  its  petals  and  turn 
to  a  lonely  autumn  berry  is  surely  nothing 
against  the  reality  of  the  rose.  It  was  real 
enough  in  June. 

Yes,  it  is  because  I  feel  so  deeply  the  reality 
of  this  dream  that  has  passed  away  that  I 
wish  Miranda  would  let  me  keep  her  beautiful 
record  of  it.  If  it  had  been  real  no  other  way, 
it  would  be  real  in  her  words,  for  beautiful 
words  make  all  things  real,  and  are,  perhaps, 
the  longest  lived  of  all  realities.  So  long  as 
Miranda's  letters  survive,  our  dream  is  not 
dead.  It  has  only  ascended  into  the  finer 
life  of  words.  But  once  her  letters  are  gone, 
the  dream  is  dead  indeed;  for,  even  though 
my  poor  letters  should  survive  —  well !  I 
never  could  write  a  love-letter.  The  writing 
pf  love-letters  is  a  woman's  art,  and  Miranda, 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS        2  5  7 

in  these  precious  pages  which  she  demands  of 
me,  has  proven  herself  a  great  artist. 

As  I  think  of  this,  of  the  art  I  mean,  with 
which  she  has  embodied  our  dream,  I  wonder 
if  I  have  any  right  to  return  her  letters; 
whether,  in  fact,  it  is  not  my  duty,  in  defiance 
of  misapprehension,  to  retain  and  guard  them 
in  the  interests  of  art,  and,  even,  humanity. 
For,  you  see,  there  is  but  one  fate  for 
Miranda's  letters  the  moment  they  leave  my 
hands  to  return  to  hers  —  the  crematorium. 
She  will  probably  burn  them  with  charming 
fanciful  rites,  after  her  whimsical,  picturesque 
nature ;  load  the  bier  on  which  they  are  con- 
sumed with  cassia  and  myrrh  and  all  the 
chief  spices  —  but,  however  sweet-smelling 
the  savour  with  which  they  return  to  the 
elemental  spaces  from  which  they  drew  down 
their  radiant  energy,  there  will,  none  the  less, 
remain  of  them  upon  the  easth,  but  a  little 
fluttering  pile  of  perfumed  ashes  —  the  ashes 
of  a  dream. 

Now,  have  I  the  right  to  allow  such  destruc- 
tion of  a  beautiful  thing,  such  a  holocaust 


258    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

of  heavenly  words  ?  My  mind  misgives  me  no 
little  as  to  this.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  temporise 
with  Miranda,  make  some  plausible  excuse 
for  delay,  if  only  that  I  may  read  through  the 
fairy  tale  once  more  from  beginning  to  end, 
before,  if  needs  must,  I  send  it  back  to  her. 

Another  problem:  I  am  wondering,  as  I 
turn  over  page  after  page  of  our  brilliantly 
written  past,  whether  Miranda  will  expect 
me  to  return  also  the  many  flowers  that  every 
now  and  again  fall  out  from  between  the 
fragrant  sheets.  Even  supposing  that  she 
can  remember  every  letter  she  has  written 
to  me,  and  is  capable  of  detecting  me  should 
I  filch  a  single  one,  she  can  hardly  remember 
the  flowers  of  eight  summers!  Yes,  eight 
summers.  I  said  that  our  dream  was  a  very 
long  and  beautiful  one;  and,  indeed,  it  is 
hard  to  understand  why,  when  a  dream  has 
lasted  so  long,  it  should  not  last  forever. 
But  such  is  the  way  of  dreams,  and  surely 
Miranda  and  I  were  fortunate  in  that  ours 
lasted  so  long. 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS        259 

Here  is  a  flower  I  certainly  shall  keep, 
whatever  happens.  This  arrowhead,  with  its 
keen,  beautiful  leaf  beside  it.  Do  you 
remember  the  day  we  gathered  this,  Miranda  ? 
How  I  climbed  down  from  the  little  bridge, 
and  picked  my  way  over  the  stones  of  the 
brook  that  went  singing  out  of  the  sun  into 
the  cool  darkness?  It  grew  right  in  the  sha- 
dow of  the  rough  stone  arch,  and  when  I 
came  out  with  it  in  my  hand,  there  were  you 
standing  on  a  stepping-stone  just  behind  me ; 
and  some  treacherous  gold  pin  had  loosened 
the  wheatsheaf  of  your  hair,  and,  as  we  stood 
together  on  those  quaking  stones  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  little  stream,  we  looked  into  each 
other's  eyes.  And  just  then  a  catbird  began 
singing  in  a  meadow  nearby.  Do  you  remem- 
ber? And  may  I  keep  this  arrowhead, 
Miranda  ? 

And  this  flower,  too  —  this  strange,  waxen 
flower  that  made  us  a  little  afraid  because 
we  said  it  looked  beautiful  as  death,  not 
knowing  then  how  near  we  had  come  to  its 
name.  We  found  it  growing  in  the  depths  of 


260    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

the  woods,  a  haunted,  lonely  thing,  and  we 
plucked  it  as  one  might  pluck  mandragora, 
almost  expecting  weird  cries  and  lamenta- 
tions rising  from  the  ground.  The  innocent 
children  call  it  " Indian' s-pipe."  Some  call 
it  "corpse-flower."  What  shall  we  call  it, 
Miranda  ? 

And  here  again  is  a  flower  no  one  shall  rob 
me  of.  A  simple,  childish  flower  indeed. 
Only  a  spray  of  Crimson  Rambler.  At  least 
you  will  let  me  keep  that,  Miranda.  You 
will  not  deprive  me  of  that. 

I  have  just  found  something  else  pressed 
between  the  pages  of  a  letter:  another  kind 
of  flower  —  a  butterfly.  A  great,  yellow 
butterfly  with  tails  to  his  wings.  I  caught 
it  for  fun,  not  meaning  to  hurt  it;  and  then 
suddenly  an  impulse  came  over  me,  and  I 
crushed  it  between  the  pages  of  a  book  we 
were  reading,  as  though  one  should  capture  a 
sunbeam  of  some  summer-day  on  which  we 
were  very  happy.  When  I  opened  the  book 
again  —  Do  you  remember  the  book?  —  the 
flower  wings  were  quiet  as  any  other  petals, 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS       261 

and  we  both  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
feeling  of  fear,  of  omen.  We  who  hated 
cruelty  and  abhorred  death  had  killed  a 
little,  beautiful,  innocent  creature;  and  we 
felt  afraid,  and  said  little  as  we  went  home- 
ward; but  our  eyes  said: 

"Suppose  it  were  love  we  killed  to-day, 
that  'Psyche,'  that  frail  butterfly  thing  — 
Animula,  Vagula,  blandela!" 

I  wonder  again,  as  the  little  wings  fall  from 
the  folded  sheet.  At  all  events,  that  was  our 
last  day  together  in  the  fields.  Since  then 
the  arrowhead  has  flowered  in  the  brook  — 
but  not  for  us.  That  was  our  last  summer- 
day. 

Our  last  summer-day!  I  let  your  letters 
fall  from  my  hands,  Miranda,  as  I  say  over 
to  myself,  "Our  last  summer-day" — for  it 
is  again  summer,  "a  summer-day  in  June." 
How  strange  it  seems,  after  all:  summer 
again,  and  no  Miranda.  I  could  almost  say 
with  the  sad  Irish  poet: 

"  Has  summer  come  without  the  rose, 
And  left  the  bird  behind? " 


262    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

For  you,  Miranda,  seemed  very  summer 
herself.  The  sun-goddess  you  seemed,  the 
blonde  young  mother  of  the  green  boughs 
and  the  knee-deep  grass.  When  you  looked 
upon  the  meadows  they  filled  like  the  sky  at 
evening  with  blue  flowers,  and  when  you 
spoke,  the  woods  rang  with  a  thousand  birds. 
The  very  fish  leaped  up  out  of  the  talking 
stream  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  your  shining 
hair.  Wherever  you  passed  life  sprang  up, 
abundant,  blossoming,  filled  with  the  laughter 
of  immortal  summer. 

Ah!  to  what  enchanted  youth,  this 
"summer-day  in  June,"  in  what  Brocel- 
iande  of  green  boughs,  or  nymph-haunted 
secrecy  of  rocky  pools,  are  you  teaching  the 
lesson  of  summer? 

"  A  summer-day  in  June ! "  As  I  say  those 
words  over  to  myself,  do  you  wonder,  Mir- 
anda, that  I  should  sorrow  to  part  with  the 
beautiful  history  of  eight  summers? 

I  suppose  that  I  must  send  that  history 
back,  whatever  my  feelings  as  an  art  custo- 
dian may  be.  Miranda  loves  someone  else 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS        263 

and  feels  it  only  right  to  him.  And  I  love 
someone  else,  and  should,  I  suppose,  feel  it 
only  right  to  her.  Actually  I  have  neither 
feeling.  On  the  contrary,  I  hold  that  new 
love  should  be  grateful  to  the  old  love  for  the 
lesson  in  loving  which  it  has  taught. 
One  might  adapt  the  old  song  and  say: 

"  I  could  not  love  thee  so,  dear  love, 
Had  I  not  loved  before." 

So,  I  confidently  believe  that  Miranda 
could  not  have  loved  her  new  love  so  ade- 
quately had  she  not  loved  me  inadequately 
before.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  I  am  well 
aware  that  I  could  never  have  loved  my  true 
love  as  I  do,  had  it  not  been  for  my  eight 
years  apprenticeship  to  Miranda. 

Love  is  a  mysterious  spiritual  training,  and 
we  are  apt  to  learn  its  lessons  too  late  to  apply 
them.  Surely  it  is  not  too  late  for  Miranda. 
I  can  only  hope  that  it  is  not  too  late  for  me. 

Having  finally  decided,  both  against  my 
heart  and  my  artistic  judgment,  that  Mir- 
anda's request  for  her  letters  must  be  acceded 


264    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

to,  I  am  not  yet  out  of  the  wood.  One  more 
problem,  and  that  not  the  least,  remains  to 
be  solved.  By  what  method  of  transporta- 
tion shall  I  transmit  so  precious  and  so  dis- 
tinguished a  consignment? 

I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  men  alive 
to-day,  who,  in  all  the  simple  Philistinism  of 
their  natures,  would  commit  Miranda's  letters 
to  the  care  of  a  stoutly-stringed,  brown  paper 
parcel,  under  the  insured  promise  of  a  re- 
sponsible express  company.  We  all  have 
our  ways  of  doing  things.  That  would,  of 
course,  be  an  absolutely  secure  way.  Miranda 
would  surely  get  her  letters  back  that  way,  or 
claim  the  insurance.  No  doubt  this  method 
of  transportation  would  be  as  satisfactory  to 
Miranda  as  any  other,  for  the  letters  we  write 
mean  so  little  to  us  —  when  they  come  back. 

However,  I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to 
returning  Miranda's  letters  in  any  such  com- 
monplace way.  I  simply  could  n't  return 
Miranda's  letters  in  a  brown  paper  parcel. 

How  then  shall  I  return  them? 

I  have  thought  of  three  ways. 


THE  DREAM  DOCUMENTS        265 

Remember  that  these  letters  are  to  me 
more  precious,  more  important,  than  the 
secret  messages  of  kings.  They  must  be 
delivered  with  appropriate  ceremony. 

Three  ways  have  I  thought  of: 

First,  I  thought  that  I  would  place  them 
in  an  urn  of  bronze  wreathed  round  with 
laurel,  and  that  six  white  horses  should  bring 
them  to  Miranda's  door. 

Then  I  wondered  if  this  way  would  not  be 
the  best:  That  a  thousand  carrier  pigeons 
should  fly  to  Miranda's  window  in  the  dawn, 
each  with  a  letter  in  his  beak. 

But  the  way  I  should  like  best,  and  I  think 
that  it  might  appeal  to  Miranda,  too,  would 
be  for  me  to  deliver  them  myself  at  the 
address  of  a  certain  oak  tree  in  a  certain 
unforgotten  woodland,  "East  of  the  sun  and 
West  of  the  Moon."  I  have  already  found 
for  them  a  beautiful  coffin,  a  little  carved 
chest  in  which  a  long-dead  queen  of  Arabia 
kept  the  sweet  smelling  essences  and  unguents 
of  her  beauty.  The  box  is  fragrant  yet  with 
memories  of  her  rose-petal  face.  In  this 


266    DINNERS  WITH  THE  SPHINX 

box  I  will  place  Miranda's  letters,  and  there 
will  still  be  room  enough  left  for  mine. 

Then,  if  Miranda  will  consent,  I  will  meet 
her  in  that  woodland  at  the  rising  of  the 
moon,  and,  if  she  will  bring  with  her  my 
letters,  we  will  place  them  in  the  same  box 
with  hers,  and  then  I  will  dig  a  grave  beneath 
the  oak  tree,  and  in  it  we  will  place  the  box 
together  and  cover  it  over  with  the  fragrant 
summer  mould,  and  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and 
tears ;  and  we  will  go  our  way,  she  through  one 
green  gate  of  the  wood  and  I  through  another. 

And  great  Nature,  who  gave  us  our  dream, 
will  thus  take  it  back  into  her  bosom;  and 
Miranda's  lovely  thoughts  will  blossom  again 
in  anemone  and  violet,  and  out  of  that  grave 
of  beautiful  words,  as  spring  follows  spring, 
two  young  oak  trees  will  grow,  inextricably 
entwined  in  root  and  branch,  and  there  the 
birds  will  sing  more  sweetly  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  wood,  and  there  the  silence  will 
be  like  the  silence  of  a  temple,  and  to  those 
who  sit  and  listen  there  will  come  soothing 
messages  of  the  spirit  out  of  the  stillness. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


OCT  16 


FEB8    1954  LU 


LOAN 

APR  23  1973 


LD  21-100m-12,'46(A2012sl6)4120 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


